


There Is A Pleasure In The Pathless Woods

by calliopes_pen



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood Drinking, Exorcism, F/M, Fog, Found Family, Friendship, Happy Ending, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnosis, Jonathan fights for his soul, Journey to the Castle, M/M, Mina fights to protect Jonathan, Mind Control, Nightmares, Off Panel Stake Through The Heart, Possession, Quincey causes property damage, Vampire Bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28074726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calliopes_pen/pseuds/calliopes_pen
Summary: A lie is unknowingly penned within the heart of Jonathan Harker’s journal, formed by Count Dracula's great mind. Jonathan did not escape the castle unscathed; he was bitten; he was made to drink blood. As the horror mounts following his escape, Mina is ensnared in the growing net that is woven around them all. They must walk this dark road to its completion, with everyone cooperating and joining the battle for their very souls.There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, as the corruption begins to consume Jonathan and Mina one piece at a time.
Relationships: Brides of Dracula/Jonathan Harker, Dracula/Jonathan Harker, Jonathan Harker/Mina Harker
Comments: 23
Kudos: 21
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MilleVisages](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilleVisages/gifts).



> This was the prompt: “I'd love an AU where Jonathan, like Mina, was bitten by Dracula and both their struggle to come to terms with it and fight the compulsion while the group attempts to defeat the Count. Writing in the same way as the book is would be a delicious bonus but in no way expected.” 
> 
> The title comes from the poem _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_ , by Lord Byron.
> 
> I am only warning for Major Character Death given the outcome of a particular matter that occurs in the final chapter, between Jonathan, Dracula, and the kukri (and a helpful Bowie knife). Canon was sprinkled in when it comes to the vampire's fate, along with a heavy dose of divergence with the manner of his demise that is in keeping with this story.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! Chapter 6 does become Jonathan returning briefly to journal format, as he tries to come to terms with particular matters being piled on top of him at that point.

It was the night of June 24th, as Jonathan Harker did his level best to find a way that would lead him out of this accursed place, and from this accursed land. He was, by turns, pondering what it once had been in bygone days, in accordance with the Count’s speeches.

It was a balmy night within the castle, save for when the wind picked up. Nearest to the roof it was always worse. Or perhaps he ought to call them what they were; battlements of a bygone age. He knew it wasn’t safe to loiter, and pulled his thin jacket tighter about himself. He rubbed his arms, both to soothe himself, as well as to ward off a slight chill.

As Jonathan wandered the corridors, he was by turns anxious at the potential reappearance of his client; his captor; his gaoler; his formerly presumed beneficiary in a splendid deal that may have left him quite well off for his future life. In other moments, he found himself slipping into an odd serenity; an acceptance of his fate that was, perhaps, dangerous to allow to continue.

For unlike other men, he knew the date, if not the hour, of the day he was to die. He had held the letter he was induced to write, and then dated it for the Count. The final letter had been noted as the 29th instant, so he had but five more days. No, he knew not the hour, as he had thought, nor the method, nor what was to be left of him, if anything. Would he be left for the wolves, or would his bones be left in some dreadful location in these halls?

Doubtless, not even the crows or other carrion birds would be able to locate his remains. He had never seen an inkling of such creatures, and presumed they were too afraid of the Count’s diabolical ways to stray into the courtyard, much less fly through an open window.

And so, casting that rumination from him, he walked, and surveyed. He was mindful of his every step as he moved down the corridors, and of the area’s disrepair; its danger; its traps, left waiting for the unwary. He was not at his leisure to just lay down his head anywhere, after previous events. He was quite desperate to get away from the walls of this castle. He saw movement, and frowned, before realising it was no more threatening than quaint little specks of dust, floating and whirling through the rays of the vivid moonlight.

If he had but access to a map, perhaps this might be easier; perhaps if he had a guidebook, penned by a helpful personage. No, he smiled with dark humour. No, should someone else have fallen victim to the Count’s methods, they could not have aided him.

He pondered the glory of this place in past centuries. Wars had been fought, and most likely won, by the Count’s boasts. They had been so beautifully and frightfully painted by the utterances of the man when he was carried away. If this was a land presently so unsettled, he could picture the shadowed recesses of the corner becoming an excellent location to conceal an assassin. That window’s view, easily luring one in for a look, only for an unexpected bolt to be fired from a proficient archer.

He rubbed his chest, vividly imagining how it would feel to have a bolt pierce him there, before he shook himself. He mustn’t entertain such thoughts. No, he must never fall into such a state of forgetting reality, and believing the fantasy. He frowned as quaint little specks of dust whirled about his vision, and reeled, almost too dizzy to breathe; to stand upright for any longer.

Jonathan touched the stones, so that he might steady himself. He presumed he had somehow caused such a malady to stir within him due to his musings about things which could not be. He should not lose himself. When the vision and the sensation did not disperse at once, he moved to the next window. Another breath; two; three; the effect was lessened. He focused himself more on nature, and less on whatever that was.

It was easiest to see here, above the treetops. The remote tower windows gave him the best vantage point, for one of the few natural scenes of beauty. He leaned out the window for a better view, and minded a spot where stone crumbled at his touch along the edge. In this land, sheltered from the waves of progress that stretched before the eye in London, it was almost another world.

If only he had listened to the warnings of the villagers, and stayed far from it. If only the Count was but an ordinary man; if he was but a cheerful host that could show him the sights by the daylight hours, he presumed that he should be wooed by this land. To Jonathan’s detriment, and sorrow, he wasn’t. He was a cruel figurehead, alight with monstrous passions.

The moon cast an eerie pall to the landscape, as though in a single moment, all of nature could choose to be frozen, and hidden from mortal eyes; it almost reminded him of tales told of the land of fairies, should one fall upon a fairy circle at some inopportune moment. It was breathtaking in its beauty. As a cloud passed overhead, he heard something, though he could not place the origin.

It wasn’t that timeworn mortar, which flecked off beneath his fingers. Perhaps it was the scrabbling crunch of ancient stone crumbling in a room through which he could not venture, and echoing through the corridors. Perhaps it was the castle, weeping for its lost souls. He smirked, knowing himself to sound more and more these days like the helpless maiden in a penny dreadful, about to be pounced upon.

The smile fell away, as he pondered if the sound was footsteps. He dismissed that. It could not be the Count, for the man was not privy or prone to allowing his footsteps to be detected by his common solicitor’s ears. Given he was some unknown creature merely in the semblance of a man, he supposed he was unable to pass like more than a phantom among the living.

With that thought ringing through his mind, he began to move onward down the halls, before he turned. Jonathan swiftly ran along the winding stairs. He didn’t miss a step, as he had been here far too long not to notice all the little places along which one might trip and never be seen alive again. He paused for breath at the top as he stole away through another alcove.

He heard the howling of dogs or wolves, far below in the valley. It was a veritable chorus of the children of the night, as the Count had dubbed them. Did the animals still wander the courtyard, too, or had they moved down there? His eyes felt heavy, then, tired from all this activity; recalling the last time he had been foolish enough to nod off, he thought of where he must travel next. His room was near enough, so surely those three unearthly maidens, those Weird Sisters as he had declared them previously, wouldn’t accost him again.

He lifted his chin, and focused on steeling himself for another mad dash. He backed out of the alcove. Alas, he realised he assuredly had been caught unawares, when hands as light as the moonlight took hold of his shoulders from behind. He opened his mouth, certain that he was about to let loose a shriek that most certainly would have startled his attacker.

The blonde woman put a finger to his lips instead, and touched his brow. The scream never emerged; Jonathan found himself hushed, and confused. It seemed she wanted him quiet. She wanted him to be pliable, though he hadn’t an inkling as to how he knew this. He was unable to dart around her, only dumbstruck by her beauty. Laughter as piercing as tinkling wine glasses played by an expert finger was heard not too far behind him, yet he could not turn.

She was not alone, and he was trapped, bound by their wiles, and pinned in a cul-de-sac. They would not be deterred, for the Count was not in close proximity. The ghastly enticing women desired him as a banquet, he supposed. He dreaded that they should feast on him; maim him; leave nothing left to be identified, or worried over. Had his dread of such before become precognitive? Would there even be a marker to signify his passing?

His heart pounded; he found it impossible to look away. And then, he was drawn backwards, and turned around until he faced the woman that bore an uncanny likeness to the Count. She stroked his neck, as he sucked in a breath. She pulled him close to her bosom, and leaned closer. To Jonathan, it struck him that the pose was almost that of a lover that desired to whisper a secret to him. That was, until her fangs sank thrillingly, terrifyingly, wonderfully into his neck.

He gasped loudly; uncaring of the fact the other two were silent spectators, Jonathan moaned. He could feel every thump of his heart. His legs felt like water, as though he might very well swoon again. All that he saw was rendered as though through a filmy haze. His fingers brushed against the arm of the creature, too gently to push her away.

Abruptly, a pleasant euphoria drained away from him as the fangs were removed from him; a plaintive noise of protest emerged from him before he could stop it. He was abruptly shoved towards the blonde again; her arms were open, and ready to catch him. He opened his mouth, desiring to speak and warn her the Count would not be pleased. Instead of words, he found himself pressed down towards a cut on her arm. 

Briefly, he tasted blood, and could not help but swallow. His thoughts grew disjointed. He did not know what to do with himself. As he pulled back, shock at what was occurring struck him cold, and freed his mind again. He stumbled enough that he evaded the questing hands of the third woman. He covered his ears. Did he not hear a clamorous roar of rage at being defied, reflected in his mind? Or had it been given voice? He had at first believed it to be him, screaming in denial and terror, but it did not resemble his tenor.

He didn’t want to stay and know what other horrors would be visited upon him. “I wasn’t waiting for you,” he insisted nonsensically; hysterically. He turned and fled the way he supposed he should. He ran blindly, feet carrying him faster than he had ever moved before. He only knew that he might be safer in his rooms, so much as that amounted to anything these days.

Gasping for air, Jonathan scrubbed at his mouth in horror, before he collided with something hard. He had seen the barest glimpse of something dressed head to toe in black, and knew what it was. This was the Count, whose iron grip was all that prevented him from sprawling onto the stone floor. Jonathan found he could not come up with words for his state. Although, it did not seem to matter, as a rage not directed at him filled and brightened within the Count’s red eyes.

“I didn’t sleep,” Jonathan finally managed to murmur, as his lungs burned. Was there still blood on his lips? God, but he wished mirrors were allowed!

“Wait for me,” The Count snarled. “You will find my thoughts enlightening once I have seen to them.”

Jonathan nodded slowly, before running straight into his room. With shaking hands, he bolted the door. What good would that do? He wondered with more than a touch of hysteria. He plucked his journal from his pocket, and sought to steady himself. It was becoming akin to a talisman, a comfort just so that he could confirm the facts of all matters.

When the Count’s shadow moved beneath the door, and then moved unnaturally upon the wall, Jonathan did not react. He was becoming numb to such things. He found he was relieved, for at least one evil might be able to protect him. The Count himself was just as suddenly there, seemingly manifesting, or pulling himself from the darkness itself. Jonathan nervously swallowed, and swiped at his mouth again.

“What enlightening shall we do, sir?” His voice was hoarse and shaky. Panic licked at the edges of his mind, and he needed assistance in understanding. He saw that the Count’s diabolical eyes were drawn to his neck once again, presumably remembering the last time and how he had recoiled. He wasn’t wearing that crucifix anymore; the rosary beads it hung from had broken, rolling away earlier in the night. At this moment, Jonathan couldn’t recall where he placed the remains.

He couldn’t hang it above the bed anymore. His shaking hand quietly covered the bite, shielding it and hopefully rendering the Count more prone to reason. He found himself holding his breath, then, as the Count drew closer. He felt naked beneath the potential judgement of that gaze, as it roved over his body.

Slowly, the Count reached out his arm for him. He removed the unsteady hand pressed against Jonathan’s throat and studied the wound; held his hand within his strong grip, much as an acquaintance would when fearing for one’s safety within the latest interlude of horror. He looked upon Jonathan’s mouth with scarcely restrained fury mixed with lust. Then, his fingers travelled across the wound almost delicately. Jonathan took a shuddering breath, feeling almost apart from himself.

The Count’s hand was pulled away, and Jonathan was left shivering. Then, his eyes widened as the Count tasted the blood upon his finger; the blood, which was still warm; still fresh; _his_ life. Why should he be surprised? Why should this unnerve him most of all? He shivered harder and found it felt as though a fog was wrapping around his mind, as the Count stared deeply into his eyes.

The Count waved his hand in a silent, restrained gesture towards the solicitor. Without a word being spoken between them, Jonathan found that he understood the intent. Even without hearing the words aloud, something reverberated through his very being. As it coiled through him, he only knew that he must obey.

He was supposed to sit down; he backed up, eyes focused only on him, until he fell backwards into the chair with a grunt. Jonathan waited with bated breath. He was at his writing table. What did the Count wish of him? Would there be more letters written? Had not the date of his death been written in stone? Had he not done enough by his own accounting?

Jonathan peered upwards as the Count moved forward to stroke the cover of his journal. He clutched it tighter against his chest, frightened it would be confiscated. He could do nothing to stop him if it were so. He must write, if only so that some poor soul should someday be warned before they were enmeshed in churning waters, driven to the brink by loneliness and confusion and desire. 

“I—I need it,” Jonathan began softly, as though to explain himself. His stomach roiled; from the blood, or his nerves, he could not say. The Count shook his head, and Jonathan fell silent once more. In truth, he found himself anticipating that his death sentence was moved to this very hour. Perhaps, even, to this very instant. He only waited for whatever words might seal his fate.

The Count’s clawed fingers scraped over his head, sifting through his hair as though he were a child that required succour. So it must seem in this place. “You do require its presence, and it shall be yours...yet still, you will write something else for your mind to keep hold of, I should think. Another course will be set down for posterity...for if you survive your pleasures, you see.”

Should other eyes see it, his solicitor need not be shunned; while he doubted much would come of it, it still amused him to give him a tiny spark of hope. His eyes locked with Jonathan’s, and he painted a picture of another scene, another order of events within his mind’s eye. “You are in agreement?”

Yes. It only fell to Jonathan to pen the words. Jonathan felt as though he shouldn’t write what was, but what must be. Everything felt perfectly natural when it came to the order, beneath a haze of red.

The Count moved soundlessly behind him; a weight fell upon his shoulders. His hands were pressed against them, as though the Count was steering him. Oddly, Jonathan felt the desire come over him to take one of those hands, and assure him that he would not fail him. Instead, Jonathan opened the journal until he came to a blank page.

Jonathan quietly pulled the ink well closer, and the pen was soon scribbling across the paper with speed, almost as though it were not his will behind the action. After several minutes passed, he felt an ache within his shoulder; he winced without feeling as those sharp nails almost pierced his shirt, wondering only if he would lose more blood tonight.

He put down the pen, and waited for the Count to read over his shoulder. Jonathan should be quaking; instead, he was placid, with his hands now folded in his lap. The Count leaned closer, and then made a sound of contempt. Jonathan looked up, as he wondered what he had done wrong.

“What is this _code_?” Dracula snarled. He studied his solicitor’s face; his mind. He saw no effort to obstruct his will. “It is of the same make as your confiscated letter. It is not a betrayal of hospitality, but your natural order?”

Jonathan blinked slowly, nonplussed. Of course. He had not changed to writing it in proper letters, had he? He was running on instinct, and felt that to change now would draw suspicion. It would have also led him to run out of pages long ago. He found himself explaining himself.

“Yes. It is called shorthand, sir; it is one of many forms of the style. Should we meet upon English shores, perhaps it will be taught to you. I...find I would desire to assist you in such an activity. Shall I read it to you?” The Count waved a hand over Jonathan’s chest, and he took that for confirmation. He reached the part that concerned his host the greatest, and found he tapped the page to draw attention to that. He began to translate the Pitman’s for his host.

‘ _Then I began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aerial gambolling._

_Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating moats of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts. Nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised!_

_Quicker and quicker danced the dust. The moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place._

_The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those three ghostly women to whom I was doomed._

_I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight, and where the lamp was burning brightly.’_

“There is enough truth that it should be acceptable. The ephemeral dust in moonlight was just so, before the phantom maidens presented themselves to me,” Jonathan whispered. There was enough to it that should not broker suspicion; he did feel safer in these rooms, with the light at its brightest. The Count returned to his side, and stroked his cheek; tapped his temple. He found he could not move. His heart pounded, both from a residual fear, and the loss of earlier.

“Now, my dear young friend, you will sleep. You will forget your experiences with the three tonight. You will not recall my kiss as you English are likely to call it,” he pleasantly informed him. Unable to move of his own accord, Jonathan could only shiver against his wishes. The Count bent closer. “Sleep, Jonathan Harker. Know nothing more for a short while. Renew your strength; your blood; your life.”

Jonathan’s eyes fluttered, as he began to feel a swoon coming on; he fleetingly found it a strange thing, when one already felt as though they were dreaming. A hand was pressed to his back, so that he would not fall out of the chair and strike stone. Within moments, the world faded; his vision darkened. All went still within him. The last thing he heard was a quiet snarl beside his head, as some perceived restraint fell away.

The last thing he felt was the sensation of two pin pricks in his already pained throat, far more gentle than the women.

Still later, he found himself blinking in confusion as he revived. He was laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He sat up, feeling exhausted and not entirely himself. Bleary eyed, he gazed around the room. Feeling as though he had forgotten something from yesterday, he stumbled over to the desk and looked at the last written entry in his journal.

_Oh, yes._ He had almost fallen victim again. He shook his head to clear it, and tried to determine just why and how he managed to lose track of something of this scope. He shouldn’t sleep in strange places; he shouldn’t wander, aside from seeking a way to speed his departure from this house of horrors.

He should see if a breakfast had been laid out for him, even if he didn’t trust this place. He rubbed his face, knowing it had probably grown cold many hours ago, if it were hot. He looked at his pocket watch, and sighed. No, it _wasn’t_ the day after his writing, but a scant number of hours later. The sun was not out; the light had either been his imagination, or a hallucinatory spark from the corner of his eye.

While this meant it was not the hour for breakfast, perhaps he could locate some sort of sustenance. He felt a bit famished, as though he had exerted himself strenuously and required more to sustain him. He leaned upon the door, and felt a dread at venturing into the hall. He was frustrated with himself, as he returned to the desk and tucked his journal into his pocket. Of _course_ he felt such; whenever he went _anywhere_ in this wretched place, he was set upon by some horror.

If the Cerberus of legend happened to be lurking behind one of those doors that were barred to him, and was guarding the entrance-way to Hell itself, he should not be surprised in the least bit. Jonathan paced to the door, feeling disgust at his fear. He put his hands on his hips. Why _shouldn’t_ he go down the grand staircase, and see what should occur next? While he had tried several times, maybe this time was the time he could force open the locks, cast them aside and vacate the premises?

He froze at a sound from beneath his window. There followed a terrified wail, which ended as quickly as it had begun. Then, all was still and silent again; it felt worse than the cacophony, for he knew what it signalled. He could not discern if the women were being punished for attempting to appear—and here, he confused himself when a great swell of pity rose up for them, before he forced it away. For all he knew, they were being fed someone else to satiate their unnatural appetites.

They would not be thinking of _him_ afterwards. Were they capable of feeling regret from their attempt, should the Count be harming them? Or were they merely crafty animals, though capable of speech? Jonathan moved to try the door. Finding it locked, he slammed a palm against it in impotent frustration. He was locked inside, a prisoner with an even smaller ability to roam.

Was there to be this room, and nothing more for him? The emotions within him bubbled over. Helplessness overcame him, along with a strange all-encompassing tiredness; he sank into his chair and, for a short while, nerves frayed, he found himself weeping. Then, uncertain as to how long he had fallen into that state, he strove to pull himself together. His fob watch proclaimed it to be ten minutes when he dared to consult it.

His head shot up as another sound reached his ears. He rushed to the window, and stared down into the courtyard, squinting so that he might see better as shapes moved through the night. It was the mother of the child; to his ears, it sounded as though she were demanding its return. It was not a punishment, then, but a feast, and his stomach churned.

What more could he do, but become the witness when death came for the poor soul, the bereaved mother beneath his window? What else could he do, but watch as the wolves devoured her, and parted from his view, licking their jaws?

What could he do? How could he hope to evade these animals and then make it through a forest filled with them, should he escape? How could he hope to escape beasts with slavering jaws attached to achingly human faces? How could he escape from this dreadful thing of night and gloom and fear?

Jonathan closed his eyes, and sought to steady himself. He needed all his wits about him to escape before the dreaded date of that final letter. He hoped to wrench his heart away from this sea of despair, upon this so lonesome shore.


	2. Chapter 2

Mina Murray sat cloistered within the chapel of the convent in which Jonathan had found sanctuary. He had grown wearier as the sky became dappled with a breathtaking hue of red. As the sun was soon to disappear beneath the horizon, she had chosen to let her fiancé go undisturbed. She had kissed his brow, and assured him she would not wander too far from his side.

She was mindful of his recovery, and he had given her a pleased smile at the consideration she had given to his mental state. And, it seemed, that she would not loiter outdoors after dark. If all went well, when he was fully mended, she would become his wife. Upon exiting the tiny room, she had returned to her own quarters. She found herself unable to sleep despite the hour, and so had gone on a quick expedition around the east wing of the building.

 _Oh, Jonathan_. Her heart broke for him, and all the weeks he had been left to writhe about in some unknown fear upon the bed. The poor dear was a wreck of himself, but was doing his level best to present himself as a gallant soul that was not beside himself with unknown worries. There would be quite a bit of nursing ahead of her, if she desired to have him return to anything resembling who he had been; she was not planning to abandon him to his nerves. 

The sister who had written to her was such a treasure. Sister Agatha had noticed her as she wandered the lengthy corridors, and divined her purpose. The excitement she had carried with her prior to their reunion was easing at last. There was such a peace here; it was truly a blessing that Jonathan had managed to find his way to this place, and was not lost to her forever.

Mina had accepted an invitation to attend one of their services, if she were so inclined. She found that she was, out of a genuine curiosity. She had settled down into a pew, while the convent’s hallowed corridors were not so crowded. It was perfectly lovely, all of those songs; all of that mentoring, and the words; the deeds; the love. She supposed Lucy would have found it a trifle dull, though, given the duration upon which it lasted.

Mina knew that she would have never been fit to take the orders that these wonderful souls had; she should not be satisfied to live within these confines, for one thing. There was the matter of desiring to be married to Jonathan, of course; such would have been forbidden. She would want to be carefree and dance upon completion of that marriage rite; wander; explore; live. She might have desired to teach children, but she could not have been happy wearing the wimple.

The pious words of the Mother Superior had fallen silent now; soft prayers were taking their place as the women of the order filed out. Mina was not entirely alone, though; Sister Agatha remained present, though refrained from interrupting her tranquility. Indeed, Mina found that she desired to take advantage of this quiet space. She retrieved some paper from her belongings, and began to pen a letter to dear Lucy.

She had promised to inform her when she and Jonathan were, at last, reunited, but had become too preoccupied with him to follow through until now. She remembered how Agatha had stated that the ravings of the sick were the secrets of God. Her dear Jonathan would hopefully never have need to bend His ear in such a manner again, in all the days of his life, if they were lucky.

She heard whispers echo across the room from the threshold, but paid them no mind. She supposed it was something innocent, such as deeming who would do a particularly unpleasant chore for the week. Or, perhaps, they were only determining the next sermon's theme, so that they might further benefit the souls of those assembled. When the intonations of a foreign tongue grew frantic, though, Mina glanced over the back of her pew with concern.

Mina was not inclined to eavesdrop. These people had welcomed herself and Jonathan without criticism. Not wanting to overstep her bounds and trod over something unfortunate, she began to turn away. She halted in the doing of that, though, when the nun shook her head. She rose when Sister Agatha gestured for her to approach with briskness. Had something untoward happened? Was there some sort of an emergency?

Sister Agatha grasped her hand with benevolence on her face, before her eyes darted back to the nun who was parting with ample haste. There was an urgency about her manner. “Come with me, my dear Mina. I will elucidate all that is progressing as we move.” She felt it was good that this poor child was not present for the current calamity. She would have only grown panicky, at how her beloved was bewitched.

She tugged Mina’s hand as they walked onward, hoping to instill calm as they moved. “In the letter I sent, you will recall I expressed that the traces of an illness such as his, do not lightly die away, yes?” The nun inquired. She did not desire to be the bearer of bad news.

The young woman nodded, evidently worried, and so she continued with great care. “Jonathan is not as on the mend as we believed.” She sought to stave off questions as they found their way along. “The night before you arrived, he began to lose himself in increments to a delusion that was _lessened_ , but still not entirely _healthy_. This change lasted a few short hours; there was a fever ever so mild. It went away that dawn.”

Sister Agatha ruefully went on before she was interrupted; dear Mina was agape with horror. “I believed he was only _briefly_ ill, and our doctor verified it was not brain fever, though it did befuddle him. It was not to be mentioned upon his rebounding as it seemed to be just a flicker; and, upon his delight of your presence, we believed it was beneficial. It surprised us all, just as much as him, the dear boy.” He had not even been able to explain what he had been seeing, though that was no surprise to her. Delirium could render the faculties confused.

The nun was apologetic, as she felt sorry for the two young lovers. “I have just been informed he sees all manner of horrors anew, painted in a vista only he can fathom! Come, come! We will see ourselves.” She sighed. “It sounds as though a milder fever simmers within him, while the shadows grow longer and the hour later.”

They were outside of Jonathan’s door. Oh, but he had _recogni_ _s_ _ed_ her earlier! They had spoken of their plans for the days ahead. She had hoped he was on the road to true healing; she had given him space, when it was apparent he desired rest, though had joined him at his meals. A sound she could not identify made itself known to her ears, before her eyes widened. It was Jonathan, gently weeping.

Mina’s palm touched the door. Was this what brain fever sounded like, even halved? She glanced to Sister Agatha, who only nodded; with that permission, she moved to gently open the creaking door. She was on tenterhooks, for little had been said in regard to his mannerisms or his behaviours when he was out of his head, aside from the talk of ravings of ghosts, and blood and wolves; of a poison or decay or another such fancy in his veins.

There was no easing into this. She took in the room, and saw what was presently his condition. Jonathan was clinging to the edge of the spartan bed like a drowning man; his eyes were wide with unknown visions. Indeed, there were tears in his eyes, as he had seemingly but briefly sobbed for the horror. Her heart went out to him.

She heard whispering, and stepped closer with great care. Finally, she was close enough to discern the words. It was a continual strange muttering of “I can’t, but I must.” Mina just wanted to hold him, though was uncertain if he would view her as a threat. What did he see? 

What nightmare was coiling itself around his soul, and searing itself into his waking world?  
–-

Jonathan no longer knew what was reality and what was not; what was a figment of his fevered imagination as he lingered in some unknowable torment, or what was truth and safety. At intervals, he felt arms seeking to guide him to somewhere he couldn’t recall; eyes mocking him, soothing him, frightening him out of his wits. And he felt hands, sliding up and down his body as though he should be seduced with wild abandon. However, they were not real; they were ephemeral; ghostly; ghastly, even as they were arousing.

No matter their substance, he believed he also felt claws upon those hands trailing madly down his back. When he sought to ignore them, they raked up and down his body. He believed he simply must have blood dripping down his back by now; surely his spine could be seen by all the world! But no. No. Frantically touching at it, only showed him there was nothing to be seen, only felt.

Jonathan sat up quickly, but nothing and no one was there. Was this room even real, or were the touches more substantial than the building he was presently within? Had he actually met with Mina in a convent? Was it a trick? Did he lay somewhere, still and quiet and pale upon stones splashed red with blood? Was he truly wandering off the path in the woods, insensate for a time as he rested?

There were three voices enveloping his mind. They were familiar voices, sultry and wicked; they were calling his name; he felt that he must turn to the window, but saw not a thing there. “Where are you?” he whimpered. His head ached. He required sleep; convalescence. His feverish eyes swept over the room, before he shook his head, covering his ears with a moan.

Even that didn’t stop the sounds. He scarcely noticed as a nun entered, though he gave a short shout of surprise when her gentle hand touched his forehead. His eyes snapped open, and something about him must have given her a fright, for she fled. No; no, that had been a physical sensation, and it had been innocent. She was alive. Unlike those vixens, it wasn’t meant to entice, merely to soothe. For the barest moment as the woman left him, he found clarity.

And then, the feeling that he was alone and without aid returned. Jonathan shivered; colder hands were there, almost hard enough to be manifesting in his reality, as well as in his spirit. He saw red eyes even when he closed his own; he saw fangs peeking through full red lips. They were in the past; and yet, they were also now partially seen at the window.

“I know you,” he whispered, tone half accusatory. A woman with wavy blonde hair cascading down her form was prominent among them. She moved to the front, and beckoned to him. She wanted him to follow her into the night; how he knew this, he could not say. She would anoint him in her blood; she would make him her own, in a crimson baptism.

There was pleasure to be had, if only he would follow them in body; in spirit; in deed, and in word. If he relinquished his soul, if he took their hands, if he coveted them, then he would be theirs. “I mustn’t,” he murmured sadly. Their eyes seemed pained, in regard to something about his place here.

He jolted as his mind was inundated by visions that repelled him, as well as, oddly, enthralled him. When they briefly ceased, he was left reeling. It felt like his skull was burning as a siren sang out to him; he hadn’t wax to plug his ears, he disjointedly fretted, dimly recalling the tale of Odysseus.

Jonathan knew that something had happened to him in recent days; it was impossible to deny that, when he was forced to stay here for any duration. Memories nipped at the outskirts of his conscious mind like wolves, and then hid from view. He couldn’t fully grasp why, but he scrubbed at his mouth, as though some phantom thing could be wiped away, and this nightmare ended.

‘ ** _Jonathan, oh, Jonathan,_ **’ their voices laughed; taunted; cajoled through him as they bolstered their mental assault upon him. Above all, their tones somehow drew his heart closer to them as they continued. Tinkling laughter washed over his senses; it was almost like the wind carried their voices from far away, through all of nature. He found himself wanting; wavering; needing them desperately.

No! If he could but make them go away, if this place was real, Mina would be safe! He felt so weak in body, and in soul; it was all the protection he might provide her. The intensity of the red eyes grew, as did the pressure upon his mind, and his tenuous sanity. It felt as though, bodily, they were closer than before, even though they resembled spirits.

He gasped as he heard leathery wings beating upon the glass; even with his eyes squeezed shut, he became tormented by their shadows careening first madly about the room, and then directly above his head. They clawed at his face! He flailed to drive them away, even as he opened his eyes and knew they were not there.

They had not gained access to the room after all, had they? Jonathan rubbed his arms to confirm he was unharmed. It seemed to him as though this encounter was not entirely new for him. If he did not go outside, eventually they would find their way inside; perhaps their method would be through him. He would soon beg for their presence. If this was real in any increment, then the precious holy women who had provided sanctuary to him would be harmed.

There they were again, beauteous maidens once more! The fear was discarded, and joy was stoked within his chest. They drifted to and fro, now almost as solid as he was. They were garbed in gowns as white as snow; their hair drifted like something alive.

The blonde’s hands were pressed against the glass; the other two held their hands in a half circle, arms outstretched. It was as though they desired that he might be added to their mix, and thus each could complete themselves with the other.

There was a reason he needed to be at their side, and they would certainly tell him. Their eyes held secrets that he felt desperate to know. Their smiles became more grotesque as he leaned forward, where before it felt as though they only entreated.

‘ ** _Come to us...are you not lonesome here?’_ ** Ilona called. He recoiled, inordinately terrified again. How had Jonathan come to know her name? Or that of the other two, somewhat, through her? His fear was lessened as they continued, trying to instill within him a frenzy of need. **_‘Play with us. Let us kiss you again, for you are so close. They will hurt you here. We will lead you into eternity.’_ **

If he touched them, they would take him away from here. If he went with them, he would live eternally. How was this possible? His eyes were wide; he felt a desperate tugging inside of him. His hand reached for them, desperation for their touch overwhelming him. Then, reason reasserted itself just enough for him to ascertain that he was not close enough, for he was still situated upon the bed.

He smiled, tremulous as it was, as he pondered this. If he went to them, there would be no more suffering. Yes. Let this end. Let him be rejuvenated; let health wash over his body. He found the strength to stand, as their voices crashed through him like a typhoon.

He took one halting step closer; he felt himself breathing heavily; sweating, as he was unable to wrest himself from their cloying presence. He was an Englishman; he should be able to refrain from such revelry as they promised. Though, where was the harm in just one night, or two, or three? Was there not pleasure to be found in the pathless woods? Should he not partake of it?

He wavered at the centre of the room. In the tumult, he hadn’t heard the door open; now, it closed with a muted thump. “No, I—I shouldn’t,” he insisted to himself. This was improper; this must be a grotesque sin. “I can’t, but I must,” he repeatedly murmured.

Then, a fourth voice, softer than the rest, yet more concerned and loving began to entreat him, calling his name. It pierced the cacophony by its familiarity alone, pleasant as it was. It soon became his anchor.

“Mina?” Jonathan wondered hoarsely. His mind grew even more confused, though sought to latch upon anything that could pull him away from drowning in a sea of blood. If he inhabited a nightmare, then his beloved Mina should not be sullied or soiled by its torments. She must look away, and forget him.

“Come back to me, Jonathan,” Mina urged softly. She approached slowly, as though her fiance were but a frightened animal. She was uncertain how else to handle this. Truly, the poor man needed to be coaxed away from whatever loomed before him. Whatever he believed was a threat, it was only in his mind, and he must be made to see that. “Take my hand; please come back to me.”

Sister Agatha was behind her, ready to intervene with another nun should he grow violent. Mina couldn’t see him ever doing such. He was so gentle, reportedly even so as he had raved, entirely out of his head. If only she might have held him then; she could do so here, and chase away the visions.

Jonathan took another unsteady step toward the joyous and deadly apparitions; they were goading him onward, inducing him to feel such raptures whenever his thoughts turned their way. He wanted to fall into their arms, though the window stood between him fulfilling such an ambition. He wanted to try to open the latch and crawl outside to them. They were all phantoms, apart from him. They were undetectable one moment, vibrant the next; and oh, so beautiful _._

Fear and hope warred for dominance on Mina’s worried face once it could, at last, be seen by Jonathan. At first, the world as it should be rippled, as though he were viewing it and her from beneath a pool of swirling water. Then, all at once as Mina grasped his arm and he felt the pressure of her fingers, there was an instant's clarity. She felt so real, but the voices plied him with entreaties.

“Let me go to them,” he pleaded softly. He struggled to keep tears at bay. When Mina tugged at him, he was too weak to resist.

“Never,” Mina managed, firmness in her voice. If she must go to war against an illusion for her husband's sanity, then so be it. There were tears in Mina’s eyes, as well; she turned to look at Sister Agatha.

The nun was crossing herself, but held her tongue, for this was a fragile time. Though nothing was in the room but for the man, the nun still felt the presence of a great evil struggling to gain entrance.

“I want to go home, away from them, Mina,” Jonathan murmured as he struggled to maintain his balance. “I want to...to...go far from the wolves.” Why was he so torn? His mind was so overwhelmed that he scarcely knew what to say or do next.

“When you’re better,” Mina assured him. With the way his behaviour was, he reminded her somewhat of Lucy when she was in a sleepwalking state. However, Lucy was rarely so talkative when she was like that; she only wandered like a spirit upon the moors. She saw him begin to sway.

“The red eyes are haunting me, and they’re in me, too,” Jonathan managed as his voice grew faint. They had to be inside him, for he wouldn’t feel like this if they weren’t, he reasoned frantically. One shaking arm directed her gaze to the uppermost pane of glass, for she did not appear to understand. He felt Mina’s hand touch his back. “Why do _you_ not see them?” He asked plaintively. “ _Their_ red eyes see everything, both inside and out of me. They have my spirit and my blood in their grasp!”

Mina took no offence; she only shushed him gently, fearing it would do him further harm to fixate on a delusion when he was already so sick. She managed to turn him towards her. “You are going to overcome this,” she whispered to him. She hoped to give him something to hold onto. “I see a man, kind and noble, who has grown ill through no fault of his own. With each day that passes, you—you will forget such sights, visible or not to me.” She hoped he did not continue in this manner for the rest of his days.

It frightened her to see him like this, for he was so frail; so fragile and pale; so scared. She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. Mina then perceived the signs that he was about to collapse; of course she knew that such swaying was but a prelude, but she saw still more. His eyes had grown glassy, and more distant than before. She managed a gesture for assistance as he slowly began to go down. The nun was with her, and between the two of them, they were able to move with him, easing him to the floor.

Her skirts softened where he lay, as he was shifted. Upon her lap was most assuredly better than obtaining a skull fracture in a foreign land, atop all his other ailments. She stroked his head reassuringly, hoping it provided some measure of comfort. As he looked upon her, dazed and uncertain as to how he had managed to get into such an unseemly position, she brushed his hair from his eyes. He wept in total silence; gently, she wiped his face. Little by little, he appeared to become cognisant of his surroundings.

Jonathan weakly clutched at his temples, for the fog that had blanketed his mind, and the intrusive thoughts that had smothered his reason were retreating. Why was he on the floor? He blinked in confusion up at Mina's worried face, before a patchy shred of memory came to him. Then, he began to speak. “Whatever I saw has hidden itself from me,” he murmured to her. He would confess all manner of foul deeds to her, could he but recall what he had been plotting.

Jonathan shook his head, at a loss to explain. “I-I’m sorry, truly I am. I don’t know what came over me. One second, I was of the opinion that I required candles to be placed in every corner, to chase the shadows away. And the next, I—I think I was behaving like a cad in your presence, and seeking to depart without giving due consideration as to how it must be taken.”

He took a deep breath; there was a faint aroma of incense from another corridor; the smoke from a fireplace. It helped to steady him, as his shaking hands rubbed his face. The forest, if he were still wandering lost out there, would not have smelt such. How had he lost sight of his place? Yes, it would smell of blooming flowers. It would not smell of stew cooking on a hearth somewhere downstairs.

He must certainly be seen as a disgrace, he felt. He felt tears upon his face, presumably shed earlier. Quietly, he tried to make himself presentable. Mina only provided solace, and did not judge him; she provided a handkerchief from one of her pockets, and he gratefully accepted. He closed his eyes for an instant, and felt a palm press against his forehead.

When all eyes were upon her, the nun shook her head, before she resumed standing. “The fever has broken, Mr. Harker. Again. Come, come; let us get you to bed, young man.” She suspected that evil had designs upon him, but he was in need of care. Between the two women, Jonathan was soon moved back to where he could rest.

Mina brushed off her dress; she didn’t dare to part his side again. She could write any letters from the chair beside his bed. Mina gave a start, then, and tried to remain steady for Jonathan’s sake. She quickly shared a look with Sister Agatha, though the woman did not seem to quite understand what was the matter. She calmed her pounding heart from the perceived shock.

Her eyes were drawn to where Jonathan had intensely stared earlier. She had seen something as she had moved...but what? Perhaps it was only the rays of the morning sun, glinting off the chapel’s stained glass windows. They were adjacent to it, after all, so it must be! It had to be that. It was only that, for one dreadful moment, she thought there was something alive peering in at them.

She had distinctly seen three pairs of red eyes gleaming, as though intending them harm; as though to issue a threat, before they simply vanished like smoke. It had to be a mirage, caused by dear Jonathan’s words issued through the veil of true hysteria. It had merely spread to her, like a disease. It was only that, and nothing more she insisted to herself. She squeezed Jonathan’s hand; when she turned, Sister Agatha was directing a knowing look her way.

The nun nodded once, and crossed herself again. “Some superstitions ought to be heeded. Never go without holiness on your person,” was her only advice. The nun had her chores to see to, but would be back later. She was pleased that he was lucid.

Jonathan pulled the blanket until it was draped over his shoulders. He felt himself shivering slightly from exhaustion. “You’re really here,” he marvelled softly. He savoured the gentle touch of her hand on his face; no man could be luckier, even if the circumstances left something to be desired.

She kissed his cheek. “Of course I am. Where else would I be?” Mina whispered. And then, wondering if either of them could be thrown out for causing disquiet, she put a hand to his shoulder. Quietly, he climbed back under the covers. Mina joined him, wrapping her arms around his back. Despite the position, it felt chaste.

Jonathan took a shaky breath. He almost couldn’t believe this was happening, but it was. He felt her gentle pressure upon his skin. His Mina was here for him. He was not alone with his fears; his doubts; his melancholy; his confused mania. He gasped when Mina ever so gently kissed the back of his neck with her soft lips.

Mina rubbed the spot; he had never been so sensitive to touch before, or he had hidden it admirably from her. She wondered if his shivers lay bare desire; fear; or, simply a man that was weak from lack of sustenance and illness. Mina’s finger brushed a raised mark upon his throat, which was almost a scar. Leaning closer, she discovered what might have been a twin to the marks upon Lucy’s throat.

Her confusion would be apparent and worry him if she faced him. It was not raw and torn; it must be healing. It was impossible for it to have been caused by the same activity! It was not likely he would have pinned himself with a shawl. She tapped it, and sensed when his attention was drawn to her alone. “How did this happen?” She softly asked, in case it might be something frightful. She would not be upset if she were ignored. It had to have hurt when it occurred.

“I—I cannot recall,” Jonathan shakily replied. There was fear in his eyes when he rolled over to see her. Something was forgotten, and it distressed him. He felt calmer as she wrapped her arm around him again. Her eyes shone with love; he felt truly safe again. “I love you...my Wilhelmina,” he declared. He gently pressed their foreheads together, for he hadn’t the energy for much more. She cupped his cheek.

Jonathan knew better than to ask her to stay; he would not plead for her to not return to her lodgings elsewhere in the building. It was apparent she would not leave his side. He wondered if she could become his bride here, and not at a later date in London. He wanted her so much. “Might we marry here, do you think?” He knew the topic had been mentioned in the letter that Sister Agatha had written from his dictation. He wondered as he rubbed her fingers. Whatever horror was in his mind, she had chased it away. 

It wasn’t like they were eloping. Neither of them had much in the way of family, save those who had sunk so deeply into their hearts. There was Mr. Hawkins; Lucy and her mother; a handful more, as it was originally intended to be an intimate and small affair. This would be smaller still if they could pull it off.

Mina had hoped for such on the train, but had fretted that he could not decide such matters for himself yet. Yes; let them do this. Let them become man and wife while he was eager enough. It may be the blessing needed for him to mend. Her smile was overjoyed; the colour of her cheeks gave away her thoughts, for she blushed merrily.

“It can be arranged, my Jonathan.” She nodded in thought. “I will see how _quickly_ it can be arranged, at any rate, while you rest. I wonder about the decorum...but what is there for such when your groom has laid abed, idle and ill for six weeks and two nights, delirious?”

There was a momentary flash of consternation upon Jonathan’s face; wariness in his eyes; embarrassment and worry. Mina carefully touched his hand, though she didn’t see the hallmarks of delirium. It appeared to be something that he was almost ashamed to speak of, or that he hadn’t the ability to fully discuss with her until now. Did he have cold feet, now that they had come so far? 

“I recall that I urged Sister Agatha to inquire about payment, as my funds have seemingly departed from my person. And I cannot recall where they wandered off to, or why,” he hesitantly explained. “Have you found a way...or must we find a route to depart the premises when no one is looking, after we’ve united in matrimony?” He hated to bring it up, for it felt like something that just wasn’t done.

It was a jest, paltry though it was, even as he leaned against the pillows. He wanted to make her feel better, after becoming, in effect, his nurse and guardian angel tonight. He gave her a softly mischievous smile, though the strain was apparent. “Perhaps I shall entreat the dear sisters. Perhaps they shall allow me to darn their socks, and mend the holes in their habits with my poor weak hands.”

Mina covered the hand as he reached for her; she almost blushed again, for she had been writing earlier of how weak and spent he appeared. She had understanding on her face, and hoped to assuage his misplaced shame. It was not his fault. “Mr. Hawkins has taken care of everything. There is nothing to worry over in that regard.”

The sunlight, such as it was, was so warm streaming through his window. As he fell asleep, he felt safe. He scarcely felt Mina untangle herself from him. Nor did he hear her open the door and inform another nun of their plans.

“I will find the chaplain,” Sister Margaret smiled.

“Thank you,” Mina whispered as she pressed her hand. She turned back to see that Jonathan remained asleep; she kissed his brow. It was for the best. If he wasn’t conscious by the time the chaplain arrived, they could simply wait until his rest was achieved. 

Quietly, she moved to the chair; while she held vigil, she would also finally finish writing what she felt was appropriate for Lucy to know about their reunion.  
\--

While Jonathan slept, he was not at peace for very long. A sea of distorted faces flashed by, memories, both repressed and impossible to recall when he was awake, as well as impossible to forget. From a distance, he heard stone doors slamming shut, and his voice, begging to be let out.

There was the Count before him, fanged and deadly. His countenance lit by evil gloating, as some grim plan was almost at an end. Jonathan could not grasp a semblance of order, as all made itself known. Was he running to the Count for help, or away from him, for his life? Was he moving towards his assured damnation, or to freedom and light and hope?

Jonathan tasted blood, and terror mounted. This hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have. He felt there was no true escape, only some form of curse if he remembered clearly. He felt blood on his neck again, or for the first time, he could not say. Dracula touched his cheek, and Jonathan found he was not afraid. Was he held in place, or had there ever been safety before this fiend?

Red lips approached his own; it felt like the cold dark of the grave would draw all the air from his lungs. When they met his mouth at last, they were colder still than he could have imagined. His eyes squeezed shut. He shook his head, even as a voice began to call out his name.

Jonathan started awake all at once, feeling grateful he didn’t take a swan dive off of his perch. He found himself panting, wild-eyed as he stared around the room. There was a stone wall, but this was not the castle. This was far more inviting. There was only Mina, seeking to gain his attention.

His hand touched the cool railing of the bed. Perhaps that had caused a portion of his dream’s sensation, transferring itself even as he desired to wed Mina. Let it be so. The voices clamouring to be heard, and speaking in tongues just out of earshot would just be the nuns praying in Latin elsewhere, with the tone echoing down the corridors.

The rest was gone before he could discern all of it. He touched his lips. There were no monsters here. There was only Mina, and her love on this day, and all the ones that stretched before them until their dying breaths if they were bound in matrimony. Sister Agatha propped him up with pillows, so that he might not weaken and fall back onto the bed. He smiled as the chaplain entered the room. The vows were read; all that should be accomplished, was performed.

Jonathan slid a ring upon Mina’s finger with shaking hands. He sat up straighter, for it was his turn. “I will, so long as we both shall live,” he proclaimed in his steadiest and firmest tone. As the brief ceremony concluded, he kissed Mina’s palm; she, his temple. It felt best to do it this way, with such pious onlookers before them. “I love you, Wilhelmina Harker,” he whispered proudly into her ear.

“And I, you, Jonathan,” Mina replied, fairly marvelling at the fact that they had actually gone through with it. They were husband and wife from this day forth.  
\--

Mina aided Jonathan in his brief walk to the carriage; he was still shaky, but was making longer distance treks with each passing day. She was relieved, for she doubted a Bath chair would be suitable in a hilly country. She kept her hand on his arm as he went up the steps, only stepping back when he gestured that he could take it from there.

What little luggage they possessed was not going to be hitched to the top of the contraption, lest inclement weather ruin the papers. She passed such items that they were bringing to Jonathan, to be placed on an empty seat within. She then handed him a scarf to wrap around his neck; he had his gloves on already.

She had already advised him that it would be awful to catch a chill after being laid low for so long. He needed to be stronger before anything of the sort happened. She turned back to witness three of the sisters exiting the sacred building. While Sister Agatha had stayed at her side through most occasions, Sister Dunya and Sister Zaleska had seen to whatever other comforts she and Jonathan may have required.

“Thank you for taking such good care of him; of us, truly,” she said to the latter two. They were so devout in their aid that it was heartbreaking to be leaving them. He would have surely died without their care. However, she believed it would be far more beneficial to be away from this place. 

Sister Agatha embraced her, as the others made their excuses and hurried to their chores. Now that they were alone, she could say as much as she felt appropriate. “I only wish we had found your address sooner, dear Mina.” She looked as though darker things were on her mind. “I will pray for him, and for you. I hope that the unnatural world never touches him again.”

Mina nodded quietly, and wondered what the other woman knew. Had she ever had such a man fall upon their doors before? From her face and her words, she guessed that she was implying something in regard to _that night_ with Jonathan. She had feared it was possible for such things as Jonathan had envisioned to be spread around for a short while. She had tried to push away such thoughts. “Then, you...saw?”

“A glimpse,” Sister Agatha responded. “I saw an aspect of something. Perhaps into...hell, I cannot say. The cold in the room was no draught. The red gleaming lights that twirled in the darkness, they were not from the Hand of God.” She felt it was blasphemy to call anything not of His creation, but so it had to be. “My old eyes detected no more,” she sighed. She waved to the carriage, smiling when Jonathan returned the gesture.

She clasped Mina’s hands in hers; as she did, she placed rosary beads in the younger woman’s palm. “But go to your man. Keep his soul happy and safe.” She gestured to the beads. “I planted those beneath the outside of the window after his fear; I notice no more fear. I make the connection of evil being given root and left to fester somewhere about here.”

Mina quietly tucked the beads into a pocket of her dress, and nodded. While she was grateful no one was mad, she was also thrown into uncharted waters. The eyes were _real?_ What were they attached to? What manner of beast could it or they be? A thousand questions were in her thoughts, but no. She mustn’t cause Jonathan further agitation. She steadied herself. “I—I will write to you in one year’s time, if you wish to know how he is,” she promised.

“Thank you,” the nun smiled. There was relief in her voice, and in her eyes. She would have been wondering what became of these two otherwise. “I look forward to seeing it in the post.” 

Mina swung upwards, and patted the driver to let him know they were ready. It was silly, but it almost felt wrong to give a shout in such a place as this. She made her way to the seat, smiling as Jonathan moved for her to scoot closer. Jonathan wrapped an arm around her shoulders as they hit a few bumps in the dirt road.

How could Mina possibly tell him that the red eyes were not all in his mind? Would it be his undoing? She hoped not. Once they were upon the train and away from this country, she would. If any of it hurt him, if any of him was lost because of her honesty, she would pick up the pieces. She would pray he would forgive her. She would help him, however long it must take; she covered his gloved hand in hers.

Jonathan glanced at her, and saw trouble written upon her face. Something had occurred, for she was rather cheery while still gathering his things. She had even paused to wrap his journal in blue ribbon, though he had begged her not to do further to it, for she must read it soon. It didn’t need anything ceremonial like being sealed in wax.

He tilted his head now, trying to surmise what it was that had made her seem more in need of comfort than he was. “What is it, Mina?” Jonathan softly asked.

Mina looked upon his gentle face, and her heart melted. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t hide it, for they had known each other since they were children. How could she hide something from him, when it was focused so much on him? No. She must tell him while they were still close to aid if he might require it. They could so easily turn the carriage around, before they reached the train station.

“You recall when you first relapsed?” Mina gained a wary nod from him, and continued. “Sister Agatha saw something—as did I! It was upon the final night you were unwell, when I saw what was occurring.” She turned and grasped his arm. “Something _was_ watching us, Jonathan. You were not the only one to perceive something. I saw three pairs of red eyes, one brighter than the rest, swirling through the mist.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened in first disbelief, and then fear. He would not suffer another mental collapse from this knowledge. He only held her tighter, and embraced her. He was amazed at her strength that she had not fallen to pieces at the sight. “I...most of it has faded. I—I suspect it is locked away from me...but whatever it was instilled such madness that I don’t want to think of it for very long. I won’t let it or them take me away from you again.”

His mind went again to his journal. He reached into their bags, and shifted things about until he found it on the bottom. He pressed it into her hands. “While I do not desire to revisit what set me off and risk further calamity, I...I think you should. When you feel it is best as we move, as we have time, please. Read it.”

Mina was in complete agreement with him. And if he had questions in regard to that which he could no longer recall, and she had the answers, she would provide them whenever he was ready. “I will read it on the train.” There should be no secrets between them. Even if she saw his writing had become distorted through the twisted lens of brain fever, she must know what had happened to him. She must see his perception of how these events had come to pass. 

Who or what had hurt him so?  
\--

The train was pulling out of the station.. Jonathan pondered Mina, and her request to read while they were on the move. “I once asked if you were willing to share my ignorance, but...but I agree. You have just cause to peruse it. Do not worry for my feelings.” If she found something of grave importance, he was certain she would tell him. He was relieved to have earlier dissuaded her of the notion of wrapping up the journal and sealing it in wax.

As the silence stretched out before them, broken only by the turning of a page and voices occasionally reaching them from the corridor, Jonathan tried to occupy himself. His nerves were far too jittery for him to be settled by reading a fictional book himself, much less the borrowed biographical account of a religious icon. Perhaps he ought to merely observe the passing scenery, and allow that to draw him away from his worries. They had to return to the bitter hours of those unknown days sooner than he had hoped.

If it were not for the mysterious connection with a demonic visitation, he would just as soon have left that door bolted forever. Would there be any relevance within those pages? He had a sinking feeling within himself that was not quite an emotional reaction. It felt different. Before he could speak up and allow Mina to understand that something was happening, he felt as though he were first halved, and then filled.

He felt as though he were not within the train, but being pulled back the way they had come. It felt as though something desired to rip him in two.

He tried to remain calm even as he struggled to remain as he ought to be, and studied his unshaven reflection in the window. Beyond it, the countryside whirled by in the dark. This wasn’t brain fever, he forcefully told himself. It was too subtle for brain fever; he had fallen apart rather swiftly before he’d been placed in the convent. It didn’t ache like this.

He began to feel out of sorts in relation to the previous sensations; dizzy, clammy, and as though he were about to collapse at any moment. He heard the distant whispering of a woman’s voice, terribly familiar; he couldn’t make out what she was saying, until it struck him all at once in a wave. **_‘Fear seasoned your blood in the castle, Jonathan. Imagine what hers will taste like.’_ **

Before he could shout a denial to the very idea, and beg Mina to help him, there was a wrenching sensation deep within him. He couldn’t act. It felt like someone was shoving him out of his own body; there was ill intent. He squeezed his eyes shut; fingers pressed against the seat as he fought to hold on.

And then the feeling died away, leaving behind a numbness; he was bereft of all sensation. Gradually, there was a ripple; his faculties returned moment by moment. Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes; he heard a musical laughter within his mind, surrounding him.

There was darkness all around him; he was prone, upon his back. Despite the lack of illumination, Jonathan could easily ascertain every line in every warp upon the wood that was above him; to the side of him; from the sensations, through something else, even beneath him. He focused on the feel of it, for he could not turn his head. Was it even _his_ head? The hair blanketing it made further dread creep into his heart.

He was lying on dirt! He wanted to cry out, and press his hands against the coffin; to pound on the lid. It had to be that! He wanted to scream, but there was no air to fill his lungs. He wanted to move, and found that whatever he tried, he could not. He could not stand this confined environment.

One vivid recollection struck him, then; it was the key to reclaiming what he had forgotten. Oh, God, but he could remember with an unwelcome clarity how he had stood above the Count’s resting place, and sought to destroy him with a shovel.

He recalled those baleful basilisk eyes, and how their glare had altered the course of his aim; he remembered his terror upon missing. That piece was shoved with force back into the vacancy that had been a majority of his memories of those days. What was happening to him? He couldn’t move; speak; scream; wail. He could hear water dripping inexorably down a crack in the wall outside of his prison, through inhuman ears.

Nothing natural could hear so well as this. There was a spider capturing the unwary fly within its web not so far away. The pounding footsteps of scampering rodents were in another room. There were beetles skittering somewhere close to head.

He felt as though he must certainly go mad; he could see no avenue through which he might escape. And then, he was seated before Mina again, with the only outward sign left of his travels being that of his reaction. Had he hallucinated? Had he been terrorised for amusement?

He recalled the melodic laughter; here, now, he sensed a distant hiss of rage before all was as it should be. His body shuddered in reaction. It felt as though it was a meaningful comment, that he was not as safe as he had desired. He bore a residual ache in his eyes, and rubbed them, wondering what had occurred while he was cast into the abyss.

He doubled over, sucking in glorious air. It had never felt quite so welcome as it did now. The sight of the electric lantern was a relief, for he dared not trust the dark. “I can _move_...oh, God, you may think me mad, but I wasn’t here, Mina. I was away from this train, away from this place. I—I was trapped. I was alone, but for a taunt that crept through my mind about fear, directly prior. And a sound of unbridled fury, feral and vengeful just as I returned."

He was close to sobbing from the fear she _would_ think they must certainly place him in a sanitarium. How could anyone sound rational and cognisant of the world when they had just suffered through the torments of the damned? Mina’s eyes were wide; he hoped she wouldn’t falter in her belief of him. He judged all was relatively well on that front, though, for she wrapped her arms around him without care for her safety. 

Jonathan breathed in, fairly revelling in the sense of touch. He had felt so alone there. He couldn’t help but clutch her tightly, as he continued shivering. She was here, and not deafening insects; there were no monsters aboard this train. She was here, and she would help him. “What did I do? What did I _say_? How long was I not myself?” Jonathan managed to ask as he pulled away from her. She must have noticed. He prayed that she had!

“It wasn’t more than a few moments,” Mina assured him. It had been long enough; it must have surely felt like hours if one was on the receiving end of that. “You—you yourself said nothing. I noticed when you did not respond to a silly question about desiring paprika hendl.” It was unimportant now; everything had fallen away when she saw danger in him. “There was...a presence; a chill; there was another person's intelligence within your eyes,” she revealed. She knew Jonathan, and she knew that had not been him.

She held his face, looked into his eyes, and was reassured. This was her Jonathan. She sought to explain what he had been unable to experience. “Whatever this other was, whoever it was, they saw the rosary beads, and they left.” She had already put them away, into the pocket of her dress. When she saw a good man again, she knew that she was safe.

Jonathan couldn’t be alone for now, as he feared another experience of the same calibre to strike without warning. He glanced out the window, and noted something else. “Was it not dawn when all the nonsense ceased at the convent, as well?” The sun was rising. “I remember more than I did. I recall wielding a shovel against the Count. He was bloated like a leech, satiated in the same repulsive manner.”

“Yes,” Mina granted. It had been then, as well as now. Whatever they were up against, it was linked to the coming and going of the day. Mina squeezed Jonathan’s knee. “We’ll find the key to all of this together,” she assured him. There was a moment as they rearranged their bodies, so that both could study the pages of the journal together. She believed that her husband would have his past restored, so much as he could. If only it didn’t come at the cost of many shocks and blows to his mind. 

They would read through all of it together, and come to their next course of action. They would go home; they would fortify themselves, and see their friends again. Mina would encourage Jonathan to rebuild his strength, lest something strike at his soul again.

Above all, they would seek to learn what they were up against. Mina prayed that they would find the path to knowledge; understanding; _sanity_ , in spite of the fact that it felt as though they were but children wandering off the safer path through the dark forest, and stumbling straight into the maw of a great wolf. Or, perhaps, they were nearing the gates of Hell, where things not of this world waited to steal a man's soul.

Mina felt as though she would soon frequent the halls of the libraries in England; she would read every mythology in all the world if that was what it took to save Jonathan. She would transcribe all of Jonathan’s writing, and all of hers. If they might ever find an expert in whatever field this was, she should like to provide documentation, and not confuse some poor soul with their shorthand.

There were so many things to do. They prayed there was enough time in which to do it.


	3. Chapter 3

Time had passed since their return to England. Jonathan slumbered, and dreamt of days gone by, when all was well and just. He found himself settled within a library, surrounded by a trove of law books and notices of changes to the tax laws within the pages of the _London Gazette_. It was a lovely reminder of the joy of his calling, and he was truly happy despite their complexity.

He was soothed by writing down particulars relating to an urgent case; he was gathering vital notes for a client, who was soon to come calling. A gentleman from Sussex needed a house in Bucharest, of all places.

He did so love to peruse the property laws, for they always had their obscure methods, even should a client not find what they were looking for. The foreign ones could be a bit dotty at times, but it couldn’t be helped. He had successfully memorised most of the English laws in his leisurely hours when he was a young lad. He wondered if Mina would be entertained by that, or if she would find it tiresome. It was most likely to be the former.

As he was filing everything away, though, it felt like matters were transforming into a veritable cornucopia of terror. Everything roiled and altered around him. No, he was not within the library, nor was he about to meet a personage for the firm.

He was standing at the gates of the castle instead. A diabolical force kept him from turning to run away. Instead, the great doors flung open as though a mighty hand had thrown them loose. Unable to run, he could only step inside.

A presence was beside him. He turned, to see nothing. Something touched him; brushed his arms; stroked his cheek, yet still he saw no form. Abruptly, he was yanked off his feet by something yet unseen, which could not possibly be of this world.

He felt the sensation of being bodily dragged by his feet through the corridors of the castle, wrested by a supernatural force. They were travelling inexorably to the very heart of it; through the dust; through the cobwebs; beyond the halls he himself had walked. Finally, he was cast aside, and left in a heap.

He knelt, wary of whatever threat may come next. He could hear a fiendish woman’s laughter echoing off the stone. He knew that voice, or supposed he did, though he could not recall the circumstances. He only understood that he knew her in connection to some dreamy fear. In a sudden flash, the woman herself was leaning over his throat. He reared back, stunned, even as she was banished by still another presence.

He shook his head in denial that his terror was renewed. Slowly, he found himself backed into a corner of the great library where so many conversations had taken place. There was the Count, though he appeared greatly changed; his eyes widened as he ascertained the extent. He was grown younger, white hair now black! Everything changed, between one heart beat and the next.

The Count was then looming over him, with blood on his face. He wondered if he bit him; he wondered why he could not recall. He felt as though his thoughts were coming too slow, the world moving too fast. And then, he felt anguish course through him, ripping into him anew. His chest felt as though it was on fire, before, at last, mercifully it faded. Abruptly, his heart stopped its beating. The cold of the grave was settled into his bones.

With the certainty that came with dreams, he knew what had occurred. With that certainty, he knew his place; his fate; he knew what was yet to come. He walked with a renewed purpose. There were still more jumbled flashes. He saw blood upon the floor; a victim, but faced away. He was hungry; he could feel the vibrations of voices sending him into a frenzy of need.

Still, he could not think straight. Still, he only knew he must submit or be lost within that whirling force. He pounced, straddling the person; he could feel his fangs descending, responding to his needs. He was biting deep into their jugular. He tasted so much blood, that he believed it was like the best bouquet of wine.

He listened as he glutted himself; two of the devilish women were laughing beside him. As he slowly lifted up his gore covered face, there came the third. As she touched his face, he, at last, knew her name. “Ilona,” he sighed. Ilona stroked his hair as if he were a favoured pet. He smiled up at her, in a daze of desire; he would do whatever she commanded.

This was his mistress, was it not? This was his home. There came a hiss from behind them, and her touch; her face; her hypnotic eyes were gone before he could speak; she was driven away by Dracula’s presence again. He shuddered, for surely he must become something greater. Surely, she must return.

There was a shrill shriek of rage that was cut short. Jonathan covered his face, until the Count touched his shoulder. He looked up; unnerved; lost. Jonathan was slowly pulled up from his knees, and held. Dracula trailed a finger through the blood. “Soon we will almost be as one, you and I. Soon, you will be mine, just as Lucy has become. You will be claimed, just as thoroughly as she,” he boasted.

Jonathan frowned, and stepped out of the embrace. He wiped at his face frantically, as his semblance of self was restored; this wasn’t right. This never happened. He recognised that his trip never ended up like this. Lucy was dead, truly dead, for Mina had told him thus; he had seen the telegram.

Cold hands were upon his face again, and he tried to twist away. That triumphant expression was in the Count’s red eyes, so familiar, so evil. They glowed like hellfire, leaving uncertainty in their wake. He enjoyed leaving Jonathan off-kilter. Jonathan wanted to pull away. Instead, he found himself leaning in, entranced. Those red lips were soon upon his own, and he closed his eyes. A cold arm was around his waist.

He must worship him; he must be with him in flesh and spirit when they are joined in blood. There was his true self; there was this thing, apart from him. “Fear seasons the blood, does it not?” He mused as he and the Count embraced each other with a raw bestiality.

The body on the floor was rolled over, unnoticed, by unseen servants. Soon, it might be dragged away. The now undead solicitor forcefully pulled himself away from the Count; it was allowed for this instant. As Jonathan looked on, he saw it. As Jonathan looked on, he knew the truth as the head lolled lifelessly. The vacant face, those sightless eyes: they belonged to _Mina_. He began to shout in horror, uncaring of what may become of him in light of this.

This was the culmination of his sin; _he_ was the terror that had forever extinguished a pious and holy light within his world.

And then his voice died away as another shock joined the multitude; his guilt passed from him. Before the form reached the threshold, it moved of its own accord. Hope stirred within him, as the faceless servants released what was by all rights a deceased woman just one second prior; Jonathan slowly knelt to crouch alongside the body as it reanimated. Her movements were jerky and unnatural at the start of the process, before they grew ever more fluid.

His Mina’s eyes were as red as the Count’s; they were as seductive as Ilona’s, when she turned her face upon him. Her form remained as voluptuous as ever. He was her saviour because of that bite; he was her damnation. Her arms soon opened, ready for him to fill a vacant space. “Come to me, Jonathan.”

From her mouth, he heard the same intonations; the same timbre; the same cadence as he did when the Count spoke. He heard the same deceptively dulcet and wicked tones as that of Ilona. It was a reverberation that should never have emanated from her sweet mouth. It was an enticement that enchanted him anew.

He shivered with desire; with need; with relief when the chains of his previous morality fell away ever further from his grasp. He smiled at her actions. Her red tongue churned over her lips, wetting them in preparation of her first meal; it would not be him, for he was like her. There was no need to fear her.

“We will hunt together now,” she promised him in gloating whispers. “We will wind our way through the innocent, and glut ourselves on their sweet blood.”

They should hunt forevermore after this night; she could become his eternal companion. They would all run with the Count. Jonathan went to her, and fell upon her with a passion that he never thought his body could perform. The mighty hearth behind them flared up; the flames grew higher and higher still, as though demons stoked him; as though the devil himself approved of their activities. There was no fright at the thought.

Because of him, she would never know purity again, save for that which was stolen from others. All gentle feelings, and all humanity fled as they coupled like animals upon the stone floor. Knowing they would not suffer, they bit at flesh, and rent clothing with their claws. Soon enough, it was hanging in tattered shreds upon their backs.

Still, they did not care. A clamour rose as the wolves around the castle began howling. Their baying filled the night, in addition to the couple's own frenzied growls. The Count’s laughter enveloped them. They, too, were his children of the night. Beneath his watchful eye, they should hope to make such sweet music throughout eternity.

Sweat poured down the solicitor’s sleeping face as it twitched once; twice; it felt like his dream must never end. His heart pounded until he feared it might explode from his chest. This was not what was supposed to happen to them; this was not what reason would permit him to witness.

“ _No_ ,” Jonathan hoarsely cried out, as his eyes flew open at last. He found himself in the bedroom; he found himself in safety. He wrestled with the sheets, and not a wanton body. He was swaddled in them from his thrashing, to the point that he was becoming claustrophobic. When a tidal wave of imaginary guilt struck him, he only just managed to refrain from keening in self-loathing and terror.

He looked towards the ceiling as he felt something coil at the periphery of his vision, almost like a snake; something crept through his mind. He shook his head when he viewed nothing, and hoped it was merely the aftereffects of the nightmare. Even so, he focused on the rosary beads dangling from the bedpost until it subsided. He praised Mina for her foresight.

He wiped the cold sweat away as he sat up. He was reeling, even as he was shaking on the side of the bed. It felt like the Count was at his side. It felt as though his arms were still wrapped around his waist. He still felt Mina’s form atop him. No, it wasn’t happening; neither touch was real.

The room was only cold; his dreaming mind had shivered, and replaced the sensation with the feeling. Jonathan’s eyes were frantic as he took in every corner of the room. He was safe, was he not? He should be.

His heart still beat. There was still life within his body. He felt sickened; he still had a vivid memory of the taste of the blood. His throat was hurting, so he gently touched the scar. No, it was not reopened. No, it was only an illusion.

He imagined kissing Mina. He imagined _biting_ Mina in such a fashion, and shuddered. He let loose a low moan before he stopped himself. He rose and studied the clock upon the mantle. It was half past two. He glanced out the window; it was daylight. He frowned as he saw the carriage in the street, before he recalled their appointment.

He moved to the doorway, and listened. Thankfully, he was not too late to meet the man. He could hear voices downstairs, pulling him further still from his confusion and unbridled terror. It was part of why he stayed home from the office today, he remembered.

He wanted to be there when Mina met with this stranger. Dazed, Jonathan approached the mirror and registered his pallor. He sighed, shaking his head, knowing such a vision must be the cause.

Jonathan shook his head, and strove to look presentable. With that, he moved to go downstairs. This would certainly be the better alternative to dwelling upon a nightmare.  
\--

Mina had briefly pondered sparing Jonathan from the sordid knowledge of her meeting, but the two of them had their questions. They had discussed it at length, and made their plans. Just what did this doctor know of Lucy’s circumstances? What was the condition in which he found her, and what claimed her life in the end?

Jonathan had agreed to get some rest upstairs for the first portion of their talk. He wanted to be there for her out of support, but Mina had won after telling him he hadn’t had nearly enough sleep of late. Part of it was nightmares of that strange transference upon the train; she had gleaned that much from a few muttered comments. However, at some hours of the night she had caught him in what appeared to be a blend of sleepwalking with occasional mutterings toward an unknown conversationalist and pacing.

She presumed he might be reliving the events of the castle slowly and insidiously, one drop at a time as his mind wrestled with it. There was also the largest blow of grief for Mr. Hawkins to be accounted for; the man had loved Jonathan like a son. Their inheritance was proof enough of that. 

There was Lucy and her mother to account for, too, for Jonathan had become enmeshed in their family matters to great effect. He had grown into the role of errant sibling when it came to Lucy, when he was first courting Mina. She and Mrs. Westenra had found the entire aspect of their near rivalry for Mina's attention quite precious. 

Mina had fretted over relaying even a fraction of their woe after receiving his telegram. It was just after two when their guest arrived. She had been uncertain if she should describe things that could cause unbridled ridicule to come their way. However, having now met and spoken with Dr. Van Helsing for what appeared to be half an hour, she suspected he was not the sort to jeer at the unknown.

She had listened to his every word thus far about his concern for Lucy’s case; how he had found the letters to her; why he was at her door. He had mentioned the pinpricks on her friend’s throat, and Mina’s heart sank further, as she again suspected the two cases were inexorably linked. Perhaps he _should_ learn the reality of her husband’s adventure and labours. Nothing should be withheld, whatever the cost.

“And your husband,” Van Helsing continued amiably. He had read the letters, and still believed this woman was pure of heart and strong of mind. He was also curious of the young man who had so suffered from brain fever while seeking to complete a transaction. “Tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and is he strong and hearty?” 

There was a thump from upstairs. Mina’s eyes were drawn in that direction as she heard movement; it was the opening and closing of a door, and quick footsteps. The whole fearful mystery would be seen in his eyes, as well as hers, if not from their very words. There would be a powerful emotion there when it was all revealed to him. While her letter had spoken of the convent, she had not provided Lucy with the conclusion of that night, or the moment upon the train.

“Mostly, but we have had shocks of such an increasingly uncanny nature, ever since we were reunited. It is not a matter of the body,” she assured him at last. “Nor is it of the mind, but of the spirit.” Mina was uncertain quite how to broach the subject of his brush with possession in a way that would not leave her sounding mad, or an impressionable fool. She and Jonathan shouldn’t be awakening soon in the madhouse, she trusted.

She glanced back towards the stairs, as Jonathan made his way down the last few at a brisk pace; she suspected he had been rescuing a tie from the laundry once he knew company was present. He looked as though he had been fretting over something; by the mild disarray of the back of his hair, she suspected he had achieved a poor rest.

“Jonathan, do you remember the telegram?” When Jonathan gave her a polite nod, she understood that it had not left his mind, save for when he closed his eyes. The bleariness of sleep had already passed; he ought to be sharp enough. She made her introductions between the two men, and waited until they finished shaking hands. “Did you have another dream?”

Jonathan was uncertain how much he could divulge in front of this man, but he appeared intelligent. Mina had evidently taken to him already. This doctor had the wild eyebrows of a man on the hunt for some vital knowledge; a man who dove headfirst into clues and wouldn’t come back until he knew everything there was to know.

With such physiognomy in his catalogue, this doctor couldn't possibly know what it was to doubt himself. Granted, the Count possessed such in his repertoire, and he had revealed himself to have decidedly unpleasant tendencies if he understated events. Must he dismiss such a helpful science, or could this man be trusted?

Jonathan nodded in response to Mina’s questions, once the basics were out of the way. “The rosary beads broke her hold again,” he murmured in her ear. They were hung in the corner with such care that it tore the offender from his presence. Such fare wore at him, but at least Mina always perceived when something set itself upon his mind, whether he was awake or asleep.

Perhaps there was simply an air of calamity about him after his experiences; he should consult a mirror again and see how much his eyes gave away about his mental acuity.

“You are well aside from that time, then? There are no troubles aside from such disturbances as should ripple across the wondrous Land of Nod?” Van Helsing prompted. He tilted Jonathan’s head from side to side, and spotted the scar upon his throat. “Good, good, this is not raw and showing the world of angry infections!” It was not as fresh in the way that Lucy’s had been. He was not, currently, being afflicted in that manner. Their foe was not drinking him all up, to leave nothing but corruption behind.

Jonathan was first concerned, and then amused at how hands on the man was, but decided perhaps it was simply his way. “No, it’s just scarring,” he assured him as he stepped closer to Mina’s side. “In some ways, I am better,” he confirmed to the man’s first question. He was nowhere near as weak as he had been. “If you would read what Mina provided, I swear that it will explain more than I can alone. I was not privy to certain sights that Mina was.” He trusted her judgement in that regard.

Mina squeezed his arm for reassurance; she knew that brushing his throat in that way could cause an anxiety to surface for him. “We have each been in a fever of doubt for some time, even having witnessed what we have.” And dear Jonathan had once almost convinced himself that nothing untoward had happened at all; he had tried to suppress the experience in the train entirely, until she had made him see reason.

He had been far too cheerful as they disembarked, and momentarily forgotten the convent. And yet, he did not forget that he ought to be cautious and take his time as he walked, while he regained his strength. She had presumed another spell was woven over him, until she learned the truth. He had somehow convinced himself that the grotesque experience of sharing another creature’s coffin had never occurred. The circumstances were blotted from his mind.

She had told him of her fears that it could make or continue some damage to the brain. She had reminded them of how they shared his journal, and read the truth upon its pages. He had wept upon her lap for a time as it all struck again. He had promised to tell her of every visitation, and every apparition that should come his way from then on, much as she expected.

Mina kissed Jonathan’s cheek. At last, she turned back to Dr. Van Helsing with what she had been entertaining these last few days. “Even with me researching all that I could find in the libraries; I have sought out all matters of things of the esoteric and super-normal variety, in the hope I could help him.” She glanced at Jonathan, and pointed to the shelf; dutifully, he gathered the transcribed journals and placed them in Van Helsing’s waiting arms.

“Before we continue, you must find the time to read these. They are our journals, copied out with a typewriter for easier consumption; they were in shorthand before,” Mina quickly explained. “Please, whenever you have completed that, then we will answer your questions. You will not find this within those letters; I could not reveal particular incidents to Lucy, in regard to Jonathan. It—it wasn’t proper, while Jonathan was healing. He has been a witness to astounding events.”

Van Helsing had similar hopes, and wondered if she had laid her eyes upon anything he had not. Intrigued by their vague assertions, and this good woman’s bright mind, the doctor gathered the transcribed journals and waved a hand over them. “Come, come. You think I wait, when all is cryptic? Let me sequester myself in your so inviting home. I go where you point me, so that I am become dazzled by revelations!”

Jonathan opened the door to his personal office with great haste, and waved him on through. Their visitor shouldn’t rearrange any of his client’s paperwork, so he need not give any warnings in that regard. Almost everything had been filed away as it was. “You will not be disturbed, Dr. Van Helsing,” he assured him. “We’ll hold lunch as long as we can. You will not go hungry here, for something will await you upon your completion.”

Once the man was safely enmeshed in his reading, Mina and Jonathan turned to sit on the sofa. After a few minutes, his head was on her shoulder; she stroked his hair as they quietly contemplated what his mind must be pondering within. They only heard occasional signs of life from within.

As time passed, they changed positions; Jonathan held Mina for a time. They only parted when she briefly went to collect the food that had been prepared for lunch; it wouldn’t be something that could grow cold while they waited, for it was merely sandwiches.

After an hour, Jonathan helped himself to a bit of finger food. After two hours, a happy Van Helsing emerged and accepted Jonathan’s offered plate. “As strange and terrible as it all is, but every word is a gleaming jewel of truth that makes my crown grow brighter. And Madam Mina! You and the nun drove back the grinning devils that wanted to sup on his life and love!”

He shook Jonathan’s hand eagerly once again, once he’d put the remains of the food back on the plate. “Your mind and body and heart are all well, yes, as you said! Yes, the spirit! How was this feat done to lock your lovely wife in combat for your eternal soul’s light and your body? Can only a bite do such?” Had poor Miss Lucy suffered such an event at any point, when she was alone?

“I wish I knew. I truly do,” Jonathan replied. He wished for this man to go on at length about Mina’s spirit and strength of mind, when it wouldn’t relate to his troubles. He loved to hear of her wit; her love; her hope. It fed his soul, much as a banquet must satiate the person that has fasted overly long.

Back to the matter at hand, he had a suspicion. “Perhaps being in their presence for so long left me open to manipulation and invasion. I feared it might have caused an affinity within me, that opened me up. Or that pulsed in tune to their evil for a brief period of time.” He paused, and added more. “After...did she write of my revelations? After the incident, something was shaken loose within my head. I recalled striking the Count. I--I could not accurately recall much of that time prior to that.”

He still remembered the swing; the hesitation; the miss. He could still see those baleful crimson eyes, that left his blood chilled, and his breath quickened. “The rest soon returned in the proper order, but never when I may have had occasion to be bitten.” Or which of them had done it, though it seemed fitting to blame the Count for that as well.

Van Helsing looked from one to the other, before he addressed his question to Mina. “He did not speak? There were no taunts or proclamations of evil?” He had a multitude of questions, having only read of possessions before.

Mina shook her head, spreading her hands helplessly. “There was no chance, though he heard a cruel laughter when he returned.”

Jonathan shivered. “She echoed through every cell of my body, reverberating through every speck of light. She was smothering me with her darkness.” He accepted Mina’s comforting hand in his. The monstrous creature had blanketed his core in a fashion he would not dare utter. Then, he recalled more, for there had been revelations made to him on this day.

He dreaded to think of most of the dream as his mind shuddered away like a wild stallion, but this he would tell. “Her name...was Ilona. She was the fair haired of the three that approached me that night, when the Count intervened. That came to me in today’s dream,” he proclaimed. The rest, apart from one thing, was a haze that was already sinking into the abyss.

“Of course!” Van Helsing enthused too loudly, as he bolted upwards to his feet. He sat back down when he saw how he had startled the man with his outburst and caused him to draw away, taking Mina with him. He shook his head and continued to speak in a tone that was not so boisterous. “Of course. My apologies, but theories flowed like a babbling brook across my soul.”

Jonathan smiled once he calmed. Almost embarrassed, he returned to his seat; Mina rubbed his shoulder soothingly. He was just as pleased by theories emerging as he was confused by the man’s speech patterns. “Do go on.”

Van Helsing leaned forward and tapped Jonathan’s knee. “You could press against this presence, or drift closer because she was also asleep at this hour! She was sleeping, slumbering, your soul cry out in dreamland. And whoosh, she be there, poised to steal you.”

He sighed, giddy as he sought to fathom such a creature. “She was called by whatever remains between monster and probable victim; perhaps more from a familiar prisoner known many months.” He shrugged. “I know not how it worked on the train. I will research this, too, though I feel it to be the last theory!”

Although he did wonder just why it was that one, he was believing the theory of prolonged exposure leading to a lasting vulnerability. He clapped a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, and patted it. He had been impressed by certain actions the man had taken that led to his surviving. It was astonishing that he could sit before him, and be as well as he was. “Going down that wall, and twice!” He chuckled as Jonathan seemed discomfited from his praise.

"My apologies for not penning the exact methods of my escape at the end," Jonathan drolly added. "I was busy evading wolves, and wandering the forests for an unknown span of time.” He had also fallen apart so thoroughly that some memories could not be salvaged. 

"It is not a bad thing to have evaded, or be unwritten. The mind follows! It sees you here before me, and knows you are a living man!" Van Helsing chuckled. He knew this was not sarcasm from the young man, but a genuine need to account for his whereabouts before he had been placed at the convent’s doorstep.

And then, the relief at the verification and the reality of it all truly struck him. Jonathan swallowed hard, and knew he failed to contain the glee; the relief; the pleasure within his eyes when Van Helsing looked upon him questioningly. He almost desired to sweep Mina off her feet from his joy, but it was neither the time, nor the place, and would only make her think something had happened to his mind again.

“I’m sorry.” He smiled softly, unable to contain the extent of the wonder in his eyes. He knew it was all real, but to hear another who was not involved in events say such a thing felt like a blessed relief. “I...have been unable to trust the evidence of my own senses...but I always trusted in Mina,” he continued. He felt as though great emotion were welling up within him.

“She has been my eyes, when mine were unreliable or lost behind monsters. She has been my ears, pulling me back from the brink with her kind voice. She has been my sanity these past few months.” His words almost felt as though a strange renewal of their vows was taking place. He felt like crying.

He ploughed on before he might falter. “I can trust her to know if something in the misty cauldron of that time was real, or but an illusion. And by your words, sir, _I_ can begin to heal somewhat.” He stepped forward, and shook the man’s hand. While he almost wanted to weep at the relief, for now he was spent; for now, this was enough.

Van Helsing kept hold of his hand for a few moments longer than another might. He patted it, and smiled, before looking back to Mina. While the young man pulled himself together, he would ask about more. “But what _did_ your research unearth, Madam Mina? You spoke of haunting the library.” He wondered if a single morsel of it had crossed his path before. He desired to know what she may have overlooked.

Mina stepped closer to the staircase, and pulled several small notebooks from a bag. She had learned so much of the creatures that may be similar to what had preyed on Jonathan in literature from around the world, as well as ancient books that spoke of them as fact; she had filled up so many pages that she had feared she would run out of them. She held them up to him, and then shook her head when he looked as though he might read them. “Those, too, are in shorthand,” she chuckled.

His disappointment was so great upon his face, that Mina felt as though she must comfort him. She smiled, and made a vow to herself that soon enough, if it became a necessary item, she could type this up for him. “But I can give you a summary quite easily! I determined by what Jonathan wrote of the villagers’ warnings, that there was nothing of the werewolf within them. This cannot be witchcraft, either,” she concluded.

Mina felt as though she was at the front of the classroom again, aiding her pupils. It was as refreshing as it was odd, when the man before them was older than she was. She waved a hand to Jonathan. “You never spoke of incantations or...or protective circles or any of the paraphernalia of their stock and trade, Jonathan, and so that was easily ruled out. I managed to find enough books once I narrowed it to merely the marks upon your throat.”

“There was the name you mentioned on a page; _nosferatu_. Given the varieties, they seem to be _strigoi_. I saw several items discussing the fading away of the victim; the startling recovery, and the fangs first forming, then growing sharper before the body died.” It was horrid, but she would understand what these things did to their victims. “On page 5, I compiled all the ways one might repel them.”

She gave a small shrug, as Jonathan wrapped an arm around her waist, and laughed. She saw the thankfulness in his eyes; the posture of joy within his back. He didn’t praise her with words alone. “I did this for every culture that I could find a mention of them in, though some are so strange that I could not follow. We’ve experienced how the rosary beads spared Jonathan, though. The Count was repelled when he saw the crucifix attached.”

She touched his cheek, and kissed it, before she looked at Van Helsing once more. “He was right, doctor. Transylvania _is_ a whirlpool of superstition. Everything bubbles over and brews there, transforming in a myriad of ways as it merges.” She recalled one of the stranger legends, and wondered if it had crossed his path.

“Having read Jonathan’s journal, I am assured that his neither hopped painstakingly, nor were deterred by the holding of one’s breath. If that form is real, it appears to be confined to the Far East,” she eagerly added. “There were some...unfortunate creatures in the annals of Japan that I hope could not be based in fact.”

“Such as?” Van Helsing giddily prompted. He had become quite caught up in this thought of what was unnatural when faced with this Count Dracula and his brethren. 

“There was a type of creature referred to as a _Yōkai_ overall, with many offshoots with the features of animals—not just bats or wolves!” Mina said in hushed tones. “The _kappa_ sporadically showed up, for it is an amphibious creature the size of a man, that looks like a turtle, with a depression filled with water in its head.”

She dared not bring up the sort of thing it was reputed to have taken from within those it assaulted, for it felt far too scandalous. The rest had amused her after far too many hours up with worry.

“It pulls its victims into a lake, and either drinks their blood, or something else quite unseemly occurs, such as the devouring of a liver. To defeat it, one must simply make it bow, and therefore spill its dish of water upon its head. Either this will defeat them, or the former victim refills the water and it is in this person’s debt, serving them for all eternity. They’re also known to favour cucumbers and the pastime of sumo wrestling,” she noted with humourous exasperation.

She had to confine herself to those particulars with great sensitivity, since some of its conduct was far too lurid for polite company, or even for Van Helsing. She was gratified when her husband could not contain his brief giggle at the image of bowing being a weakness that she had conjured, and Van Helsing beamed with delight.

“There is also the _Krasue_ , also called the _Leyak_.” Mina quickly consulted her notes for the other names, but there were just so many. “The _Kuyang_ , as it’s known in Indochina, amongst a slew of other names in the region. It tends to manifest as a beautiful young woman by day. In her nocturnal hours, she...is but a spirit that feeds on blood. However, it is only the head of the creature, with its organs still attached. By unknown means, she reattaches, and thus brings along her sustenance,” Mina revealed with a shiver.

She was grateful that this sort had not attached to Jonathan. She saw an equal amount of concern in his eyes. “That sort is caused by the unlucky individual engaging in far too much immoral conduct, if the accounts have any sort of accuracy. Upon their death, they become that, through possession by an evil spirit, or a curse, or...really, some other incomprehensible workings of witchcraft if they happened to fall into that.” From the interest upon Van Helsing’s face, she supposed she would have to direct him to that corner of the library on another day.

Mina then began to lay out all the other methods for repelling the undead which she had found that were not associated with the _Yōkai_ , or the _Krasue_ , but with their present case. If even one could help, or had been unknown before now, then she would be satisfied. She laid out the intricacies of their destruction as related to the ones most likely opposing them. After several minutes, she saw the men were not bored, but impressed and intrigued.

Van Helsing clapped his hands gleefully, much as a child would on Christmas morning. “Ah, with all this light, we are none of us meekly prowling through the woods with flickering candles at midnight, so windy. We have dawn! We have gas lights! We have lightning to chase away the multitude of shadows!” He was pleased that they had travelled a similar way in their studies, though she had gone miles beyond what he had felt possible. He hadn’t even thought of silver as a potential ward against them! Would it work?

He resolved to dispose of Miss Lucy as soon as possible, lest the woe of this gentle couple double at the sight of their friend roaming the night. Yes, this Madam Mina was one of God’s women, and Jonathan was a lucky soul. He must not go on at length about the wonders of her nature and bore the pair. Even if he did have the distinct impression that young Jonathan would welcome such a topic gleefully, with open arms. He had seen the ways in which he looked upon her.

He hugged the dear lady, and thanked her further. At last, she gave her apologies as she was briefly pulled away by some household task with one of the maids. So much time had passed, between the reading, and the being fed, that he truly had to be off. He needed to send a telegram; pay for the hotel in which he was staying; see to driving a wooden stake through the changed woman’s heart, and revealing all to the men beforehand. It was a mysterious checklist.

“I can take you to the train station,” Jonathan offered. “You won’t require a hansom cab; I would be honoured to be your driver.” They possessed a carriage of their own and a horse. He might be a bit rusty in some ways, but he was certain he would recall everything the moment they were on their way.

“But I know not yet the time of the train! How do you guess the hour of arrival?” Van Helsing wondered. He had been given what he presumed must be vague estimates previously, but did not know if they were accurate.

Jonathan smiled. “Your telegram spoke of the way here. According to Mina’s guidance, you can catch the returning four o’clock train from King’s Cross if we leave now.” He saw the man’s confusion as he rattled it off from memory. Mina was the train fiend in the family, and so it was that he was kept wise to any delay or new time. He quietly pulled out Mina’s pocket sized table of trains. “She updates it frequently, to help me with clients. Even during a dry spell, even during these hours of confusion, it is a boon.”

Van Helsing was struck with wonder again. “Would that all were so inclined as she!” He saw the _Westminster Gazette_ upon the table, and shook his head. He had read this article once earlier, finding it locked in the room with him. He hoped he had controlled his reaction at its second notice, though he guessed something slipped through when Jonathan appeared worried. Truly, that was a look he wished the man did not have to regularly have.

Jonathan glanced at the paper, then at the man. As Mina had left the room, he felt free to ask what was on his mind, without worry that he would upset her. He chose his words with the utmost care. “I read it earlier, too, over breakfast. Was...was Lucy’s death caused by the Count? And—if so—is she our ‘Bloofer Lady’ the children spoke of upon their being found?”

Van Helsing turned back to him quickly. “ _Gott In Himmel_ , but you have the perceptive mind, and for these puzzles! Or have you hidden a psychic alignment? How does this connection form?” He knew he had no part in the committing of those grievances, but still the suspicion had to be summarily dismissed. He laid a hand on the solicitor’s arm, and kept his voice low. “Yes, the marks were made by Miss Lucy.”

Jonathan appeared uncomfortable when pressed. He wiped a hand across his face, and sighed. He hadn’t wanted to be right. He had hoped to be ignored, or given a fond pat on the head and convinced he was still a little bit broken inside his mind to have ever entertained the thought. He swallowed, and found himself crossing his arms protectively. “I spoke of dreams earlier; we spoke of the woman,” he carefully relayed.

“I beheld the Count in my nightmare, too, before I came down. He spoke to me; he said he had claimed Lucy as his own.” Oh, how he wished it was a mistake. “He said that Lucy was his, though the rest is lost in a churning sea of blood and laughter.” His eyes moved to where Mina was last seen. She shouldn’t overhear them. She was nowhere in range of their conversation.

“Must she--?” His eyes turned pleading. He didn’t want Mina’s grief to grow exponentially. He could take it, but he wanted to guard her heart from that. She would not get Lucy back physically; she would not clasp her to her chest and love her, only to lose her again. She had to be told sometime, but must she _see_ what had become of her? Must she speak to their changed friend, or be confronted with the demonology of the legends she had studied with care?

“Worry not, friend Jonathan,” Van Helsing consoled. He had seen their love so true, and how they protected one another. They would not be sullied further. “The true Lucy, she will be all at peace again, not unholy and biting young lads so dear.” His assurances seemed to help as he continued. “Madam Mina will learn but later of the words and phrasings uttered by all as are deeds committed. She cannot experience it now.”

Van Helsing was amazed by the boy's talents. "A sea of blood and laughter," he repeated after his assurances. "You dole out the bad news in baby steps like _me_ ," he said as he clutched his head with good humour. Would that he did not do it in such a way.

"Do you have great tidings hidden away, to be spread all over like butter?" He jested, chuckling at Jonathan's befuddled expression at the words. Was this what his friends felt at Miss Lucy’s death bed? Ah, but it must surely be, and turned back upon himself. Perhaps they would all feel this way soon enough, if their energies were directed badly, and they strode off the correct path.

Then, the clouds of confusion parted from Jonathan’s face. His smile grew fond, as he managed to find his way through Van Helsing’s phrasings. “Not yet,” he permitted with great reluctance. “Would that I had, I should shout it from the rooftop. Or all of those closest to the trouble, and thereby...add more seasoning to your food.” He couldn’t do it; he just couldn’t speak like this fascinating man! “If I ever know more than I ought to again, I will inform you straight away.”

It was hard to know which creature was in active communication with him when it happened, and what were just the taunts of a once fevered mind, stranded on a great island of terror. What was truly the torrid imagery of a nightmare, and what was the information needed on the road that stretched out before him? He dared not give utterance to any decrees made in their shrouded repugnance, unless he knew it was concrete.

Van Helsing realised all forces were gathering inexorably for the oncoming storm. He should like these two at his side, should he convince friend John’s mind of the reality of the undead. He must have all of them convene in one location once the task of setting Lucy’s soul at peace in the kingdom of Heaven was complete. The cogs were still in motion. “My next telegram to you shall reveal an address. I think it possible all will relocate and make merry with the planning against this Count. Think roughly on if you can participate.”

Jonathan nodded solemnly. In regard to Mina, come what may, she would be told. He prayed that she would never have to experience such a thing as meeting the beast within her best friend, if fate smiled upon them all. With that knowledge settled, he opened the door and allowed his guest to go first. As they stood upon the steps, he touched the doctor’s shoulder gently. 

When he turned to him, Jonathan found his next words were easy. He knew Mina’s mind, and that she would be equally receptive. Her heart was true to the cause, just as he was. He already knew the answer for them both.

“We will join your war council, sir,” Jonathan vowed. Once his new friend was safely inside his carriage, the solicitor moved to take up the reins with all due care.


	4. Chapter 4

A few days after his visit, Jonathan and Mina received two telegrams from Dr. Van Helsing. The first assured them that they were not alone; now, within their group of believers were Arthur Holmwood; Dr. Jack Seward; and Quincey Morris, replete with a vague summation of Lucy perishing for the second time. They deduced it was kept thus, lest prying eyes believe a murder had been committed.

The second urged them to convene, at their earliest possible convenience, at the respectable sanatorium of the aforementioned doctor, in Purfeet.

They would be given acceptable lodgings there, for each party would be housed in those confines. In this manner, they would find it easier to pool their resources, and garner updates from each other. Van Helsing had also begged them to make certain to bring their addendum of the incident upon the train, when they gathered copies of their journals.

By their collaboration, he would be able to broach additional topics, replete with these supplemental materials. Mina supposed that additional subjects would have to be infiltration, or transference from afar. They may be required to understand the inner workings of such phenomena.

Jonathan was staggered to soon see materials regarding dark spirits and such activities as demonic possession placed innocuously upon the dining table while he partook of his breakfast. It put him off his meal for a time, given his unwanted expertise in the matter. At their next repast, the publications were hidden beneath a quilt in a chair. He did wonder what the librarian must think of their beliefs, with such publications as she had been afforded.

Jonathan was aware that Dr. Seward had met his wife at Paddington Station; he, himself, was collected from the same place following a late meeting, by Arthur Holmwood, otherwise known as Lord Godalming. Jonathan recognised the title at once, for it had been published in all the periodicals. He was passingly acquainted with the firm that had been associated with the details of his father’s passing, and therefore the distributions of both assets and title.

Before Jonathan arrived at Seward’s residence, Mina had already discovered the good man’s phonograph and transcribed a large portion of it. After learning the precise details of how that stake was driven through Lucy’s kind heart, Jonathan felt consternation. He held his wife through the tears, when he found her reading what she had typed of the subject, and felt a similar melancholia.

Jonathan presumed that it was an ill-timed excitement melded with his shattered nerves which rendered peaceful sleep an unattainable goal the night before their group conference was to begin. Mina was at his side when the nightmares caused too much of a disturbance within him. She held his hand and coaxed him back to reality when he was left supine against the unfamiliar headboard, following a substantial night terror.

He loved her even more for her gentle touch in those moments; she was no inquisitor of old seeking to drag explanations from a mouth grown dry in terror. No, she understood that if he could give utterance to particular facts, then he would, just as soon as the tentacles of quaking fright divested themselves from his soul.

All he could recall of the commencement was the skittering, broken simulacrum of himself, wandering lost through dusty corridors with a candelabra in tow, before the scene all too suddenly simply froze. That was not what sent him reeling, though.

It was what followed when the vision was resumed, in fits and starts. He had found himself locked within a coffin again. Only this time, while he _could_ move, his efforts were futile. His fingers were first frantically scrabbling, then his fists were pounding at the lid desperately. The coffin was slowly filling up with the blood of the innocent from some unfathomable pool; soaking his already saturated clothes; drenching his hair; getting ever higher.

He had felt as though blood was filling his mouth, until he must surely drown before he was asphyxiated within a stranger's tomb.

With great effort, Jonathan wrenched himself away from such abominable and sinful reminisces. Too many troubled and groundless thoughts were drifting through his head in the wake of such an experience. He must keep his ears open to every galvanising word that should be uttered tonight.

As he found himself ushered into what had become Van Helsing’s war room with Mina one step behind him, he again pondered his place in all of this. That morning, despite his lack of good rest, he had been neck deep in helping with things in the firm in Exeter by way of telegram.

He had also been seeking out the other firms, and determining both what residences the boxes of earth were shipped to, and chasing down leads in regard to which workers had helped do what for the Count. With an internal sigh, his thoughts returned to Arthur. He rather pitied the man, in light of what excerpts he had read from Mina’s transcription. He would never have desired to be placed in his lordship’s unenviable position.

Jonathan found himself believing that if it were _Mina_ in Lucy’s place, he would not have slain her. There had to be a piece of the person left, despite the thirst for blood, and the exacerbated needs that drove one to commit strange, even occult activities. Even if it had meant somehow putting himself in harm’s way, and causing some manner of scene or physical confrontation, he ought to have rebuffed the act. He loved Mina too much to pierce her heart.

Jonathan was drawn to look at her when she first tugged his sleeve, then squeezed his hand. He found that he had instinctively pulled her seat out for her without thought, and then evidently just continued to stand and mull over his opinions while facing the window. There was concern on her face; he inclined his head to signal that all was well. With a smile of apology, he quickly found a chair at her side.

She squeezed his knee, and he gently held her hand beneath the table. They had discussed this; he would give her some sign, should anything become too much for him. At present, he was hopeful that he could manage to endure a lengthy discussion of all that he had endured, plus more he may not have been privy to at the time.

Jonathan rubbed Mina’s palm with his thumb as things got underway. He found himself returning to his previous thoughts as Van Helsing spoke. Could Mina ever do what Arthur had managed? It felt unnatural for him to put her in that position, even in the privacy of his thoughts.

All he could imagine was that, perhaps, his prolonged captivity had led him to sympathise with the Count and his progeny to some degree. Perhaps he had merely been influenced in ways that were unforeseen. He made himself focus, and strove to listen to every syllable of every warning that dropped from the doctor’s tongue, no matter how strange.

He was grateful to have done so, for moments later the attention was back on him. “Think, too, not just of their strength of ten men or more,” Van Helsing continued. “Think of the mind, in more than the child-brain! At least one mind of their ilk transfers consciousness back and forth between man and woman to terrorise and use badly, as young Jonathan can testify.”

Van Helsing paused to thumb through the particulars. “It is postscript or amendment, whatever you call it in this country, tucked into the back of Madam Mina’s account.” He animatedly explained, as everyone diligently began turning pages.

Amendments sounded almost ridiculous to Jonathan’s ears. On a scrap of paper, he wrote a quick note. Feeling briefly like the schoolboy he had been not too many years ago, he slid it to Mina beneath the table, and raised a brow. ‘Has he no shame? Must we add footnotes and flow charts to stupefy everyone?’

He grinned, though he hid it smoothly; he saw her brave work to stave off an attack of the giggles from his missive. Simultaneously, she managed to take the minutes for the group, and did so without interruption at that! Mina put it back into his hand with a mischievous expression; he casually tucked it in his pocket.

Jonathan answered what questions were put to him as the meeting continued, describing the experience of being trapped within the coffin as vividly as he could without falling apart. There was only sympathy at his account; he was uncertain what negative emotion he had expected from anyone. As the talk turned away from him, he drew a relieved breath.

He glanced around the room, for he felt as though he were being watched. Not by Van Helsing or Mina, though; not by anyone else that ought to have been looking his way for a deserved reason. Mina’s pen was scribbling away with due diligence in her task. Everyone was listening to the good doctor. Well, all save for Quincey. He was staring out the window.

Jonathan felt a tug from the same direction. He was strangely relieved to feel overcome by a strong need for some fresh air at the same moment as the sensation began to build within him. Perhaps Mr. Morris was just as desperate for an excuse to escape. While he did feel off, he knew that it was not Ilona’s doing. The sensations of her mind insinuating itself within his was of a different calibre.

This was odder, and he suspected it was their foe. He hadn’t any proof, so he did not give it a mention. Subtly, he tilted his head; Mina appeared somewhat concerned by something about his appearance. Perhaps he had grown pale again. It was like someone had sought to pilfer a piece of him, or was inscribing his name across a tombstone.

He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I’ll meet up with you later. Don’t worry, I only require air,” he whispered. There was understanding on her face as he made his departure. He listened at the door, and was pleased to note that there was barely a pause caused by it. He didn’t desire to cause any problems; as he walked down the hall, he heard Quincey closing the door softly, too.

As he leaned against the wall and felt the cool air upon his face, he felt better. Now that he was outside, he felt an irresistible urge to turn and look upon the windows above. He could see the flickering light within, and shadows. There was Van Helsing’s silhouette, making a gesture to punctuate something he had stated. Upon the sill nearby, there was a large dark form; he watched until it made a movement. Only then could he determine that it was a massive black bat.

The animal was quite still; calm, and not buffeting against the glass with its wings. It had a purpose, and he guessed it was just listening in on them. Jonathan’s eyes widened as it turned to gaze down at him. There was a shimmer. There was a glow of crimson which should not be easily seen this not short distance away. He could see them clearly; the familiarity was astounding.

He felt a thought nestle itself around his insidiously, and found himself unable to move. It thrilled him, with the unique sensation of its lodging against his own. ‘ ** _Lie for me. You may convince them of my benign stature, or defend me, such as you will.’_** Jonathan sought to quell the compulsion as it formed. It was strange, but he almost wanted to prove himself to him.

There was movement from the corner of his eye, which broke him from the spell. He heard a click, and whirled, even as he held his chest, and was startled. He saw that it was only Quincey, though he was lifting up his pistol so that he might have better aim at the window.

Jonathan, taken hold of by a bizarrely protective instinct, found himself stepping forward to block Quincey’s path. He would hit the Count! With equal dread, he foresaw that he would also be smashing the window beyond.

The solicitor grasped the muzzle, and directed the dangerous thing to the ground. He wondered if some shred of madness remained within him, for while the action bore fruit, the danger could have left him reeling or deceased upon the grass if it had even accidentally discharged.

“You shouldn’t do that! I could’ve killed you,” Quincey quickly informed him. “I wanted to hit our spy!” He’d read the accounts, and didn’t want to be the one left to explain that thing to everyone if something should go badly. If he didn’t act, there might have been repercussions.

Shaken, Jonathan nodded in agreement. “Yes, my instinctive leap was faulty, but if you miss, think of the people within that room. Think of the numbers we have at present, and what the loss of a single soul could mean. You may have hit _Mina._ ” Could he have survived such a loss at his young age?

Physically, of course he could. Mentally, however, he was uncertain and frightened at what it might have done to him. Soon enough, he heard a quick recounting of Quincey Morris’ experiences with the natural species of the vampire bat. He found himself giving a strained, yet sorrowful chuckle at being laid low by that sort, and then this man having lost a woman that loved another of his friends to the eldritch sort.

Jonathan sympathised. “Please do not fire when one of us is within range, then? If only so we might retain our wits.” He found himself pondering the possibility that Quincey might even cause some form of rioting to occur within those walls, induced by the discharge of the weapon. Already unsound minds may not be able to take that.

He smiled strangely, then, feeling as though he was not quite himself. “That normal bat is merely fond of our gas lights. Perhaps a flock is near. Perhaps it is lost,” he mused. “At any rate, bullets cannot harm a being such as he, if it even _is_ him,” he continued, almost to himself. He exuded an unnatural serenity at the very idea of such.

Quincey shook his head after studying Jonathan’s mannerisms at the last. Something was off with him, but it was just a quick flare up, it seemed. “No, Jonathan. No. It doesn’t seem to be a natural persuasion. It can't be, with eyes like those. It sees us with ease. They’re meant to be mostly blind.”

As they watched, it seemed to flap a wing as though gesturing magnanimously towards them. It was the queerest thing, but there was pleasure in Jonathan’s heart, which quickly tucked itself from view. Was he pleased by Jonathan’s actions? It was soon aloft. It soared away, unharmed; unmolested; disappearing into the fog that blanketed the grounds just beyond them. He suspected it would reach Carfax in record time.

With that taken care of, the subtle redefining of his actions felt as though it was melting away. He hoped it would last, even as he resolved it was too little a thing to merit mention. He turned back to the other man, and shook his head in genuine confusion. “Quincey, I have to apologise. I needed air, and have overstepped my bounds. Even if it was to stay your hand in an impetuous act, I should not lecture you.”

“You looked a tad feverish in there. For all I know, you were just getting really sick from something that hit you wrong. Sure you’re okay?” Quincey inquired after taking the apology in stride. He saw it as the solicitor saw it now. Yes, it might have been impetuous, but he still had his history and their present nightmare to take into consideration.

“Perhaps I still have more recovery in store for me,” Jonathan allowed. “Or I need to close my eyes and sleep without a disturbance, as that itself feels like a mirage at times. I will drive this back. All the same, as you say, I’m evidently not entirely myself.” He shrugged with self-deprecation. “I am afraid that when they wrap it all up, I cannot be present at the first excursion to Carfax.” He could see understanding. Nobody would mind it too much, he hoped.

Before another word was spoken, Jonathan reached into the pockets of his overcoat, withdrawing several items. He studied them to verify all was in order, and nothing was missing. At last, he handed everything to Quincey. “Those are photographs of the grounds from my Kodak. I took multiple ones at my leisure, and kept one set at home, and the second abroad.” It had been a good idea, seeing as almost everything was lost in the castle.

Quincey held up the key and map. The latter had evidently been folded precisely, and with the utmost of care. “These are the ways in and around for us, right? You don’t need to fret any longer, Mr. Harker. I will make sure that those get straight into Van Helsing’s hands, when he concludes everything.”

"Thank you," Jonathan added again. With those, he also pressed a hastily written note into his hands. "For Mina, so that she will understand not to grow too concerned. It will let her know not to wait up for me, and where to find me."

"And then you’ll next be found under the covers, right?" Quincey hoped. He saw his guess was spot on by the look in the solicitor’s eyes. With that, he moved back inside to see about fulfilling the requests laid out for him.  
–

Jonathan started awake to a hand touching his face; he relaxed into the sensation, for the digits were warm, and familiar. He was not in the castle, he recognised after an instant's horror, but within the bedroom of Seward's home. It was only Mina.

She shushed him before he could speak, mindful of his fears. “I’ll be typing in the next room for a while. I shall close the door, so you won’t be too disturbed,” she whispered. He did look a bit better than he had earlier. She had worried when Quincey returned minus her husband, but bearing the notice of his intent to sleep, and most of his belongings.

She needed to type up the meeting’s minutes, and there were so many pages to do; she was assigned the duty of making three copies. Van Helsing had been adamant and thorough in all his explanations, and, on occasion, she decided it was best to relay him as he was, and not summarise. Once her duties were completed, she would place the results into several safes, where the rest of the copies of the accounts were housed.

She still found it amusing that Van Helsing wanted these copies spread throughout the house, but supposed it was in the event of some disaster.

Jonathan was asleep again, by the time Mina had exited the room. Soon enough, the clacking of keys reached his ears; ah, but there was the return carriage crying out, too. It was almost hypnotic. He found himself drifting between a true rest, and wakefulness for a time, along with wrestling with a wretched sense of impending doom.

As he staved off that, he found sleep rushing away from his grasp. His eyes opened. He felt as though there was a need to write down the bat incident, before he should entirely forget it. It would be for posterity, should anything occur of a similar nature again down the line. He knew it was up to him to make note of it, for he doubted that Mr. Morris was so inclined.

Was there more, though? There was the unshakable feeling that something was already forgotten. Perhaps it would come to him at the desk, he decided, as he threw off the covers and moved. Feeling as though he was not entirely himself yet, he gently opened the journal to a blank page. He glanced in the direction where the gentle ding of the typewriter was heard. She worked too hard; they all did.

The clock ticked quietly, mindful of the lateness of the hour. He felt as though it was mocking him for his insomnia. However, as he lifted his pen, he found that his eyes were drawn to the window. Far away, he heard an inmate crying plaintively, though he could not make out the words. His heart went out to him, as he believed this was the infamous Renfield, lost in some upset.

He reared back with a gasp, then, as movement shook his world. Looking through the window pane were two red eyes. Before he could raise the alarm, he felt himself relax. He felt himself nodding as though this were natural; there was nothing to be concerned over.

The white face, red lips a stark splash of colour, was upside down. Had he clambered down another wall? Was he soon to be seeking his blood? The thought of such was not provoking the natural fear.

He wondered if he ought not rise and open the window, but dismissed the thought as soon as it formed. No, he was meant to wait. He felt like he was drifting through the haze of a nightmare, as the Count lifted the window; crawled in; took a single, menacing stride towards him. Jonathan's chin was lifted. He wanted to ask why he had come to him, but words were not forthcoming. He instead found himself unbuttoning a necessary portion of his shirt, to allow the vampire better access.

The face came closer, and closer still, until he wondered if he might kiss him. A steadying hand caressed his shoulder; his throat; his scar. Jonathan felt intoxicated as fangs entered the flesh of his throat. He must surely be swept away from his body if it didn't stop, for the rush of excitement was incredible. From afar, a serpent-like hiss filtered through his head. **_‘You are my bountiful wine-press for a while, my delicious solicitor.’_ **

Jonathan should feel happy to oblige. The clack of keys; a bell; the return carriage filtered through his gasping awe, but he didn’t have a care left. He clutched the Count’s cape, feeling further exhaustion battering at his mind; enervating desire; wonder, and a rapturous ecstasy as he felt his blood being taken by this man. He emitted a soft moan. Unconsciousness began to lap at his mind, even as he felt the Count pull loose. Jonathan’s limp hand fell off its perch.

Dracula allowed Jonathan’s body to slump over, even as he pressed one hand against the solicitor’s forehead so that he should not induce a concussion or other malady by striking the desk with force, and leave him without another taste. He should rest beside his so loved journal. With the body’s position dutifully arranged, he was gone as quietly as he had entered the room.

The clacking of keys rattled on, uninterrupted, in the next room.  
–-

Mina yawned. She had fallen asleep while propped against the typewriter, and had therefore gained a crick in her neck. While it was a rather painful thing to awaken to at first, it was getting better as she moved. She had changed into her nightgown, and now sought to lay with Jonathan.

“Jonathan?” She softly called out as she saw his location. Had he been up for hours, writing, in contrast to his assurances that he would get some much needed rest? She touched his shoulder, worried at seeing him so still. As he stirred, he appeared to be groggy; perhaps he had been feverish, but was no longer so. He only woke with effort, and appeared clammy. He was paler than during the meeting!

Without another word, Mina aided Jonathan in standing, and drew him to bed. They would rest together. He sighed as his face met the pillow, but didn’t ask any questions. He was asleep again, even as she rubbed his back. Despite her concern, despite striving to only close her eyes for a moment, she fell asleep soon after.

The next time Mina opened her eyes, sunlight was streaming through the window. Quietly, she moved toward it, and, leaning against the sill, she took in the grounds. Romantically, she fancied that if she had a proper balcony, she could have almost seen miles to the surrounding towns; just for these few moments, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The fog had lifted, though it could not be long before it returned. There was little to mar her view, but for the trees. It was so beautiful. She glanced down, and saw his journal was still open.

She touched the pages, blank and unused. No, he had not been writing at that hour. What had he been doing up? In the harsh light of day, she could see that there was nothing there, save for two small drops of blood staining the paper. A chill clenched her heart. No, it couldn’t be him. She spun around, and fell beside the bed, uncaring if it ruined her best nightgown with dust. There were more important things to consider.

She moved close to his face, and took in the pallor of her husband; she accounted for his demeanour last night. She shook him awake with trembling hands. Jonathan appeared startled, which was not uncommon, though he was not usually prone to such a blank stare before he recovered.

As he sat up, arms trembling momentarily, she was looking at him with eyes that had glimpsed the truth and were frightened at what stretched out before them. “What is it?” he murmured, before he rubbed his face.

Mina shook her head, feeling rather disheartened by the situation. “I see no paper cuts here, and shall hear no lies,” she hollowly whispered in his ear. She supposed that whatever lies there could be would not be shaped by him; they would not be his ideas, perhaps. He was not the sort to dissemble to comfort her. She thought of Lucy’s fate. She thought of him, at the convent; she thought of him, upon the train. She thought of how often she had almost lost him.

She saw his eyes only held confusion, while hers were filled with quiet desperation. He didn’t know. If he didn’t know, might she be mistaken? Might there be a spark of hope? She pulled him close to her in a gentle embrace, and sighed as her hopes were dashed.

When she looked upon what should be an old scar beneath his collar, she saw new marks, fresh and unmistakable. She saw blood. The blood was dried for now, though a bit of it was upon a small fraction of his collar, where it had pressed against the flesh in the night. Her fingers brushed the spots, so tiny, so terrifying, as she recalled his sensitivity. She used that as her prompt, when words alone would fail her. She saw his realisation.

She watched as he pulled away from her in dismay, and staggered to the mirror in the corner. It wasn’t a lie, she thought. It wasn’t a mistake, dear Jonathan. Denial was useless.

Jonathan closed his eyes, and dimly recalled a desperate need for further touches; a pain within his throat; red eyes over him. “ _No_ ,” he whispered as he sank onto a stool, and covered his face. A fear of recrimination flooded through his veins, almost in time with the beating of his heart. There was a fearfulness of discovery, which he didn’t fancy staring at too hard. Was this part of the curse, to want to hide it? Or was he simply shamed and brought low, for this having happened yet again?

He turned wide eyes upon Mina. “We will tell everyone tomorrow. Let me build my strength again today,” he begged with too many emotions present to contain. He almost asked if she would cast him aside, or somehow slay him like Lucy, but held his tongue. He was not at that point. Those were mutinous things to ever think about his beloved.

No, for Mina was not harsh or hateful; she hadn’t a cruel bone in her body. He loved her, as she did him! “If we tell them so soon as then, it will never go so far as Lucy,” he insisted, lips quivering. He knew her terror; he had held her as she wept for the loss.

Mina lay a hand upon his arm, and stared at such an aberration as those lurid marks. They were so vivid; so raw; so monstrous. “I won’t tell until you are ready tomorrow, Jonathan, but if you delay a second longer than that, I cannot be a party to it. I won’t have a choice,” she promised when she stopped pacing. It was a vow that she intended to keep. It hurt to see him like this.

Jonathan grasped her hand tightly as she knelt beside him. “I will stay indoors. They think I am ill, and I might be. I gave leave for them to go through Carfax without me once,” he whispered. He wondered just how that excursion had gone, but there were more pressing concerns to attend to now. “How do I hide these, should I venture out of the room? I know that I shall simply not tarry here tonight, but stay with at least one other person in attendance within a room downstairs.”

Mina knew just the way. She moved, and began to rummage through his suitcase, where some things were still unpacked. She lifted up his red tie. “This will do for your concealment.”

With his nerves in danger of overwhelming him, Jonathan studied the item for a moment longer than was necessary. It was harmless. Slowly, he took the cloth from his wife. His cold fingers fumbled with the knot at first, but he was successful at putting it on.

Thus armoured, they could face the day.


	5. Chapter 5

Jonathan was seated in Seward’s study; he had made his way back to where there was a familiarity. He had found himself wandering the grounds earlier in a strange daze, and did not understand why he felt a foreboding sense of anxiety. Not at the start, at any rate; knowing he was bitten, he sought the presence of others. It was making him feel as he did on occasion within the castle. He had taken his leave of the others but half an hour ago, with the excuse of an encroaching tiredness.

It wasn’t even close to the truth, for he was almost too alive. He simply felt as though something was about to happen, and that he must allow it to come to pass. There was a repetition of that within his innermost thoughts, to the point that it was rather unnerving. He felt as though ideas at that level of his mind had begun to chip away at something inside him. They just didn’t feel like him.

Jonathan’s fist quietly pounded the arm of the chair, before he rose and faced the fireplace. He felt cold, despite the heat emanating from the curling and ever changing flames. He would not give an utterance to the profanity that itched to come forth with his frustrations. It was uncouth, and unbecoming of his stature. Nor was he of a mind to unwind with a glass of brandy.

He was not one to grow inflamed with passion of this calibre. Or even that of a sensual nature, he realised with an oddness, but something was making him contemplate particular movements. It was contemptible. He rubbed his throat distantly, feeling the raised mark upon it; the new scabs now hidden beneath the fabric of his tie. He felt shaky as he glanced out the window; he and Mina had deduced the origin of its appearance.

Was _he_ out there even now? Was the Count seeking to draw him out to Carfax, in a somnambulist type of trance, where he would have his way with him, and leave him pale as death, to roam the night? He did feel a tug with increasing frequency, though it was not leading him there. What was he being drawn to do? Was it truly a method of communication calling out to him?

No, of course not; he wouldn’t be able to suspect such a thing if it were so. He frowned. Was he being influenced by Ilona's distinctive presence? No, he dismissed this, too.

Despite the origin, despite the danger of the mark, despite his knowledge that it wasn’t safe to leave after night fell, he found that his thoughts constantly roamed back to that he could not stay in this room a moment more. There were other ways to make the time pass. He must...he must go and sweep Mina off her feet.

 **_‘You must be with Mina in the bedroom, in all ways. You must hesitate at the precipice, and wait.’_ **That was it! He must consummate their marriage. Yes, it was a nagging thought that soon became overwhelming. He felt the physical aspect encroaching when he glanced down, but forced his thoughts to a more placid direction until it passed. He leaned over the chair and sighed as desire for his bride coursed through him.

He should have control over such matters. Really, now. He must find Mina this very instant. It felt as though he would die if he did not have her at his side, so that he could plead his case.

He approached the window, and peered into the night; he must gather himself so that he did not sound as wretched as he feared he could with the subject at hand. The gas lights were burning hot around the grounds, but a thick fog was rolling in. He felt like soon, the light would be hidden. Soon, there would be nothing but a spark of red within its centre.

As he looked up, he saw the moon was full, though the sky was cloudy; it was still vivid and haunting. What a perfect background for the intimacy he hoped to have. He spread his arms wide, and felt like he was embracing another nature. Then, he turned and threw open the doors. He rushed out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time, until he reached the landing.

Then, he saw her stepping out of the bedroom. She looked just as desperate; beneath his real thoughts, he felt she appeared _delicious_. She appeared startled at his presence and how he careened from below, yet she was beautiful all the same. He grasped her hand, yet found he had no words. He had his expression, eyes alight with a building passion. They _must_ go in that room.

Sanity prevailed for the barest instant. He thought he was performing to another person’s tune, but then the wonder at the situation was rekindled. The doubt faded.

The moonlight was all the light they required within; they didn't need to turn up the gas, his mind insisted. They did not need the heat of the fireplace; they had that of their own making. Not a soul had to know of their activities. They were married, though. It was not a sin, so they need only turn the latch for privacy. The others were doing trifling things that he cared little about knowing.

He realised, then, he had not heard her answer to his evident desires. He cared for that above all, even if something was wrestling with it. "We'll be quiet," Jonathan insisted in a husky tone before she could speak. "Haven't we waited for long enough?" He found he didn't sound like himself. He felt salacious, as warring emotions continued their struggle. Nervousness filled his being, heightened in some unfathomable way.

"Yes," Mina professed with a fond smile, as her fingers trailed down his shirt. She kissed his cheek, knowing they had wasted enough time already. At first, she was gentle as she removed his tie before they went inside. She didn’t want to jostle what lay beneath.

Mina discarded his tie, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. It seemed the mood had expanded, pulsating outward to capture them both in its mindless, feral heat. He suddenly felt another presence probing at his mind; clawing at it; gnawing at his wants; his desires. He quickly pulled back, frightened.

"Do you feel that?" Jonathan began to ask breathlessly. There was a sense of heady intoxication; there was the sound of leathery wings beating at the window; beating at his mind in tandem, aching inexorably through his core. Of course they felt something between them, but did she just feel _that_ , too? Yes, there was a timidity to the words; there was a fear that they were not as they ought to be, as they resumed where they left off. They began to kiss again with an unbridled, unquenchable passion.

His senses were heightened considerably, as though all his life they had been blunted before. The moonlight hurt his eyes. The sound of something like claws on brick met his ears. Mina managed to stop herself, only as she tore his shirt from him; the strain in her face was terrible. Her eyes glinted with passion.

Her shaking fingers lay across his exposed collarbone, drifting upwards to his neck. She kissed the mark, where he had been bitten so long ago, yet also so recently. She gave a throaty laugh as he threw his head back.

Mina broke the silence, as he managed to look upon her once again. She had guessed and feared what could be happening to them. She wished she were mistaken; she hoped this was a natural act. "Is this us, or one of them?" What else could it be? And who else could it be, but the monster that had caused Jonathan to be flung down to convalesce in a convent; who else but the one that had slain their Lucy?

Jonathan felt as though he was shoved in a tub of ice water. Inanely, he noted that his shirt had fallen to the floor; he untangled himself from Mina, and bent low to retrieve it. He clenched it tightly, as though it was his barricade. " _Him_ ," he grunted. They were being manipulated. "He desires this."

At his expression of loss; of despairing confusion; of mute fear, Mina held him tightly against herself. Their heaving breath was the only sound; the room felt too confined, as they contemplated what new horror must await them.

Jonathan felt as though another presence was rising up within him, and seeking to usurp him. Bit by bit, his urge to resist was quelled. Distantly, he noted that Mina’s eyes were growing blank; he supposed that his face must be just the same. His grip on her loosened, even as they turned toward the window at the same instant.

In their frenzy to be together, neither had noticed that the fog, once outside, had entered their bedroom. It had poured in great waves through every crevice and crack that marred the windowsill. It crept around, and swirled over their bodies, growing ever thicker around the bed. It almost appeared to have a will of its own. Their one former spot of comfort was becoming a remote place, surrounded on all sides.

 _**‘It is time to open the window, Jonathan. It is time to let me sup to my** _ _**satisfaction**_ _ **, now that you have caused your hearts to pump so very hard.’** _ Jonathan found himself nodding along to the words as they reverberated through his mind.

Mina moved to stand. She felt as though she must greet their visitor properly. She padded soundlessly towards the window as the fog rose and roiled around her waist; it curled around her wrists. It felt as though it bore the intimacy of a lover. She felt as though she were drifting through a dream, and not the stark terror of her newfound reality.

Her hand stretched out and plunged through the swirling white. It parted just enough so that she might manoeuvre an unfamiliar latch. Jonathan was at her side, then. The mist swirled about his head, almost leaving him blinded to where he ought to step. As it moved away from his vision, he understood that his task was to assist his wife. Quietly, he waited.

Mina undid the latch, and paused, her eyes turning to look upon Jonathan as she stepped aside. Jonathan opened the window, and slowly waved a hand to signal that all was ready for the Count’s grand entrance. Mina felt as though her thoughts had slowed like molasses, and that she almost required rigid guidance in order to make a simple decision.

The two of them stepped backwards so that their visitor would not feel crowded. Each grasped the other's hand, perhaps to show him a united front; perhaps, in actuality, it was a flimsy resistance beneath the layer of dominance. They must greet him, and allow him to do whatever he wished. This close to the window, red eyes could be seen peering in at them, floating in the depths of the great cloud of fog.

An invitation had already been granted by another. It was not their place to beckon him. They had a role to play tonight, for the Count's sustenance; for his edification; for _his_ amusement, and none of their own.

The whole time they remained in their poses, Jonathan felt like he was apart from himself; it felt as though another person was at the helm of his mind. The Count had choreographed their actions; now, something else flowed beneath Jonathan’s skin. The mark upon his throat began to feel heated; uncomfortable; he stroked it with the hand that did not clutch Mina’s palm.

He wanted to please the Count. He wanted to be taken. Could Mina feel even a fraction of this? Everything felt peaceful within his heart; sensible; it was all sane again. It was all reasonable. They must welcome their benefactor. He shook his head as images filtered into his mind; he saw within a delicate scene being carved, of that which he must do.

Once he had climbed inside, the Count gestured to him as a ruler would a serf. He was standing at his full height within the room, his red eyes penetrating Jonathan’s mind ever deeper. Jonathan looked away with a small nod of acceptance as the final portion of his part in this sordid play slid into place. His pace took him closer to Mina; he lay what should have been a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

“Be not afraid, for he is gentle,” Jonathan dazedly advised her. He saw a veil of repugnance stir within her eyes, but knew he was not the target. While the words came from his lips, they were not directed by _his_ will. They were there to provoke obedience, as the Count decreed. They were an illusion being shoved into his heart, so that they might survive this; this was a mirage the Count was etching into his soul.

Mina perceived by those words that _she_ would be bitten tonight; it would not just be her husband misused, but herself as well. She supposed it was part and parcel of the curse of such monsters that made her not _want_ to cause this creature any undue strife. They must fill his belly with their lifeblood, and let him part their company. She could not hinder his plans, however much she desired to fight.

Jonathan wrapped his arms around her waist with incredible care. He pressed himself against her back, as though to be a comfort in this hour, before he gently caressed her arms. He kissed her neck, before the Count should approach. Jonathan almost felt as though he was saying goodbye to his fondest love.

He shifted, then, to be against one side of her, while the Count was on the other. He managed to stare into her eyes, and emotion flooded through them. They could not speak as their own selves, so let this be their method of communication. His eyes were, by turns, loving; despairing; evidently desiring of her safety, yet confused as to how he could ever hope to accomplish that. He wanted to shove away the beast that held them hostage; he wanted to pull her to safety.

Mina pitied him, for he was alert for this. If only he had been asleep; if only he might have been made insensible. She kept her eyes on him, even as those sharp teeth sank into her throat. She gasped, and found herself wanting to grasp Jonathan’s arms, but the Count held her. She could not block a moan. She felt a rapture in her soul that was as exquisite as it was appalling. At last, dizziness threatened to wash her away.

As Mina came back to herself, she breathed heavily. She saw the abject horror, and the guilt brewing in Jonathan. This was not his fault. Mina could feel her blood being pulled from her body. She gasped again, and her eyes fluttered as more was taken; gulped; drained. Her heart felt as though it would surely stop if he didn’t end this, just from the way it pounded.

The only thing that kept her standing was Jonathan. His face was strained, as he glanced toward the Count; some unspoken command set him free to move for a glimmer of relief was visible. The Count was, it seemed, amused by their display. Jonathan gently held her face in his hands; their foreheads pressed together, as he, too, had tears in his eyes.

She was shaking, even as her reactions eased. When Jonathan let go, his hands going slack against her, she didn’t fall. She grasped his shoulder, and steadied herself. Worried, she perceived that he was entirely lost in the throes of a trance. She understood why this was done, at least. It was, perhaps, to prevent Jonathan from struggling loose from his constraints.

It could even be described as a mercy, if she were in better company. Once he moved back further, the worst was upon her. The Count sliced a line upon his chest; he forced her face down towards it, and bade her to drink.

She was only glad she was not alone. Mina could only suppose _this_ had happened in Jonathan’s misty past. She tried to turn away, to breathe in fresh air, but the Count forcibly made her look upon him only when she had finished to his satisfaction. She didn’t weep, not here; not now, when every gesture could be the end of her. Never before _him._

She looked upon Jonathan, for the poor man was next. He looked like a discarded doll as he waited mindlessly. Oh, but she _hated_ this creature for using such a good man as him as what amounted to bait.

Jonathan turned, feeling as though his steps were made in slow motion as he was made to act again. He moved back to the bed, and climbed upon it. He knelt at the edge, so that his throat and blood might be better offered. He felt as though the entire world was muffled; muted; there was nothing of importance save for what occurred among the three of them, in this very room. He had no thoughts of his own, though felt like he should give anything spoken by the vampire his undivided attention. Nothing should be missed.

The Count’s sharp teeth, stained red, were his world. He lifted his chin further up when he felt the clawed fingers stroke it. He gazed deep into his eyes; he smiled when he did, unconsciously only able to mimic him. He did not want to hinder him in his grand plans. He was only aware that the next words spoken to him were his livelihood, and should be cherished. He must love him. He must obey him. He must worship him.

Jonathan gasped with a heady mix of delight and rapture when fangs entered his flesh and reopened the wounds further; his blood sang even as it was pulled out of his body. He swayed where he sat, and shuddered. He was too woozy to do anything but breathe.

The Count looked upon him with imperious glee. This was a captive audience worthy of his attention. His favourite solicitor could not escape his reach after this night. “They want each of you to play your wits against mine, but you will find you cannot. I will become a part of you, sowing my discord through your very essence. Where you walk, my will must flourish. My path will soon be yours.”

He gestured to Mina, and continued to speak of how close they had been to death. As she listened, she learned of the occasions their wedded bliss had been observed and had the potential to be extinguished. Were she able to, she would have flung herself upon him and battered him with her fists; still, she could not move. She could only feel anger, for herself; for what he had done to her husband; for whatever being had caused such a monstrosity to be loosed upon creation.

These must be only words, Mina hoped, with a kernel of truth and no more. He was a braggart. If God or Satan were his maker, she no longer cared. If that were blasphemy, let it be tucked away in her heart, that no other should be blemished by the hearing. She was only certain that if she screamed, it would become worse for them both. Still, she had no choice but to listen; she had no ability to reprimand him for his appearance.

As they had left the funeral of Mr. Hawkins, the Count had evidently followed, step by step in time with them, close behind. Had he not desired a woman with a parasol, had he not broken away from them, had it not been daylight and his powers at their lowest, he might have struck. He might have taken them from their lives, just off of a cobblestone street. They should have been added to his flock, with Lucy prominent in their ranks as well.

And, evidently, he had had occasion to follow Jonathan home from the train station in the dark, flying as a bat near the tree tops; near the gas lights; swooping ever lower. He had been just above their door, unnoticed, as they greeted each other; as they kissed. Mina was horrified to think of the intimacies he could have chosen to view, had they but become active within that room.

She shuddered as he bowed, before his attentions were once more upon Jonathan. He was so still; so placid; she would think he had died as he barely blinked, were it not for his breathing; and, moments later, his mimicry of the Count’s expressions. It was worse than the convent, for at least he had been afraid there. At least he had grown _passionate_ in his insistence that the monstrous regiment of women were there and wanted him.

“And you, the best beloved one of him, will witness as he, too, becomes anointed to the flock,” the Count continued with a gloating smile. He made yet another cut across his chest, for the first one had closed with an unnatural speed; blood welled up easily, dripping slowly down. He grasped the back of Jonathan’s neck, and drew him closer to him. “You will become my faithful hound; my jackal; between you both, wolves sent to devour the flock after I have had my fill.”

Little effort was required to affect the man, as his power made him unnaturally agreeable to his every suggestion. Jonathan smiled softly as the Count moved him into position; he felt himself pressed closer still to the wound. He took a quick gulp when there was no other choice but to do so; if he didn’t, he would smother.

He felt a strange desire for more growing in him, then, and continued with a second taste, before any could be lost to him. The stream continued; the pressure mounted upon his neck from that strength of legions pinning him in place. It squeezed until he had to drink further; if he did not, he would be murdered in this compromising position. He drank, until he felt as though he might drown in an unending sea of red. He was desperate for air, but yearning for the iron taste to continue.

The grip loosened; Jonathan lifted his head, and coughed. Momentarily, he sputtered before he could breathe again. His insides burned; he briefly made a noise of pain against the Count, and gazed up at him. A look of pleasure was cast his way. It felt like his blood was at war with him. It felt like he was feverish, before it abruptly subsided.

“Now, my friend, you belong to _me_. You will become _my_ scion, not her _chattel_ ," the Count declared with a mocking tone. The fiend pushed him back, smirking with lips still painted with his blood. Jonathan found himself reaching out to touch them; his arms were pressed gently back down.

Jonathan licked his lips; a distant memory, shuttered and buried for a time was struggling to reach the surface. He had been down this path before. There was a familiarity to the taste. All at once, it struck him. Ilona had done this to him. And now, the Count was doing this to him. Perhaps that was the cause of his insides feeling so strange.

It was a struggle to think so much, and soon enough the Count waved a hand and put him back into a calm, thoughtless state of being. “When my brain says ‘Come!’ you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding! You will eagerly steal or lie to reach my side. Perhaps your best beloved one will take a life for me before he can fully become one of my kind, eh, Mina? Perhaps you both will, and your hearts will sing for my touch?”

Mina glared silent daggers at him as he continued with a chuckle. He dismissed her ire far too easily. Jonathan had been bitten first; now both of them, on this wretched night. She had feared that Jonathan would be suffocated if the monster had changed his mind. If it went even worse for them, she feared a sound made suddenly would result in the Count landing a momentous strike with a powerful blow, and leave her husband’s skull caved in. It would leave her a widow. It would leave her to face the beast that had taken her best friend in all the world from her a piece at a time, all alone.

“Do you understand? Time is on my side,” The Count hissed almost sweetly in Jonathan’s ear; he had leaned his face too close to the man’s. The reek of death was on his breath; old blood and new was the prominent scent that overpowered everything, as close as they were. It penetrated the haze that had built around him. Jonathan slowly nodded, as his mind was almost his own. He seemed to understand what fate was stretching out before him. The Count trailed a cold finger down his cheek as Jonathan took a shuddering breath.

The Count smiled, enjoying the beauteous smear of blood upon Jonathan’s chin and lips. Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, though he did not fully know what words would pour forth from his lips until he began. “Land and sea,” Jonathan repeated quietly in a twin mix of horror and wonder. “Oh, your call is already so strong.” He found it repugnant, but could not express that.

Jonathan found himself in motion once again, as his body was drawn closer for another taste. Distantly, he wondered how many more bites his constitution could survive. At that moment, as the man crawled off the bed and was steadied by the vampire, the door behind them crashed inward. Still enthralled, Jonathan just barely reacted to the sudden invasion; a small frown of disappointed puzzlement briefly creased his brow.

The Count became a whirl of vivid movement, as he flung his closest victim away from him, that he might meet the threat head on. Jonathan grunted at the superhuman force behind the shove. He felt as though he were hurled from a great height, as his arms whirled about; he sought to regain his equilibrium as he fell against the curtains, only succeeding in leaving a red stained palm print against the cream and yellow fabric.

Woozily, Jonathan collapsed just as his hands grasped the bed. He landed in a heap of covers upon the floor. He blinked in confusion as the world spun. Time seemed to slow down. He found himself in a near swoon, and put his head down so he would not do himself further damage. He pressed his face against the sheets gathering upon the floor, sliding down from the violence of his fall. He could only stare as he rolled onto his side, breathing heavily; his heart pounded for want of blood.

The Count was standing over Jonathan, then. The vampire’s eyes met his and were dismissive even as he snarled, before he moved away to confront the men. He found himself moving into a sitting position from the vampire’s magnetic presence of mind alone. He ceased to move when he was propped against the bed. ‘ ** _If you go against me, I will kill her before your very eyes.’_ **

Everything came to him as though from far away and underwater, then. He was fading in and out of consciousness, but caught snatches of what occurred around him. There was Mina, covering her mouth in horror, yet not looking away from him. Fragments came and went. Crucifixes were driving the Count steadily backwards; there the Count’s pain reflected in him, forcing him conscious again; there was mist trailing away, leaving the doors to the balcony banging shut with an air of finality.

Jonathan could hear Van Helsing speaking as though from a great distance. “Jonathan is in a stupor, such as we know the vampire can produce!” His vision blurred as the great man leaned over him; those bushy eyebrows were knitted together in total concentration. “Nay, a full blown mesmerism atop! I see to her, you take care, friend John!” He felt his face being turned, as his scattered thoughts tried to rejoin; he blinked. His body began to sag, before he slumped unceremoniously back onto the floor.

He closed his eyes, his breath stertorous. Then, Seward was above him, and rolling him over; he began gently patting his face. Jonathan groaned. Groggily, he shook his head, before the enormity of events struck him. His actions weren’t currently being governed by a malignant force, and so he was at liberty to move.

He abruptly sat up, almost colliding with Seward’s chin in his terror. He regained his footing and swayed; he would have gone down were it not for Seward's aid. Jonathan clutched Seward’s arms as he began shaking in reaction; his body had been drained, and was striving to make up for the loss. Seward was all that was keeping him up at first, as he found himself drawn into arms that were strangely comforting for one that ruled over an asylum.

Van Helsing stepped forward, and gently drew the coverlet over Mina’s shoulders. He made certain it would not fall off from nerveless fingers, and sadly smiled as Mina pulled it closer to her body, until all was concealed. They had welcomed him into their home; she had joined his crusade willingly, to save those she loved most in all the world.

This couple should not have to fret about indecency before their friends, not when everything was crashing upon their lovely heads. The thin open wounds still let loose red droplets from both of their throats.

“Mina!” Jonathan cried out weakly as he gathered his wits. “Oh, but the Count’s presence! He changed my mind...he changed us. He...oh, God, preserve us.” Seward let him go, though kept a hand briefly on his shoulder. Jonathan scrambled to her side, stumbling badly as he reached her. He didn’t collapse before her. Instead, he held out his hands; both hers, as well as his, had blood upon them.

He gently took Mina's hands in his and studied her palms; little half moons of her fingernails were deeply indented in each, from how she had fought her better instincts. Both began to weep for the state of the other. Jonathan didn't know where he ought to touch aside from her hands; he didn't trust himself. Mina shook her head, as though to ease his own mistrust. The message was clear. He mustn’t hate himself.

They wrapped their arms around each other with great care, at first just thankful that each had survived the experience. They then turned their eyes warily towards the door through which the fiend had exited, lest they be taken by surprise by his return.

Jonathan jumped, startled from his reverie by Seward’s unexpected touch. He swallowed, and soon established that it was only a friend, trying to help him; he was soon accepting an offered flannel and towel. One for him; one for Mina. Staring at everyone present, Jonathan only anxiously twisted the cloth in his hands.

Van Helsing sat upon a foot stool and gazed upon the unhappy couple. No, no, none of this was right. They should not be laid low like this by that monster. Count Dracula should not have done this, though he supposed it was a message. The simple child-brain, one would think, was more primitive than this. Perhaps their foe was more wily than first supposed. It struck out when the Wafers were planted in the boxes of earth.

“How came this to be?” He wondered aloud. He knew Jonathan could not recall before. He glanced at the young man, in this state so sad, and knew his inquiries must be delicate, lest he cause unfortunate emotions to spurt forth. “You were bitten before, and know the origin now, I hope? There was the scar on the throat, Jonathan, just so. How many bites and tastes for you both?”

Van Helsing’s tone would not be considered accusatory in the least. He was understanding now, for it seemed their adversary induced forgetfulness in his quarry. Thus, each night, the hunt began anew for a taste, and the soul entranced was none the wiser.

“Once on this night, for both ways,” Mina softly relayed as she folded her hands in her lap once she found a chair to sink into. She glanced at Jonathan, and hoped he would disclose everything without prompting. He was worryingly still when the subject was broached.

“I was uncertain until tonight,” Jonathan murmured as he lay the flannel down. “Blood from him now, acrid and pungent; blood from Ilona in the castle. A bite from his reeking mouth upon this night, and last night; once in the castle with lips so red, following me parting with haste from the women’s company, where...another of the three bit me, too,” Jonathan whispered casually, as though he was merely categorising items in his mind, to be sorted later. “It felt like a dream in the castle. He bid me to forget, and just...couldn’t help himself.”

Van Helsing could see that the man was not truly all right, and hoped he would be able to speak of it later, when he was away from events. He was at the brink right now. “And you were not to write of it?” He prompted softly. Perhaps later, when he did not fear so for his state of mind, he should request that the man please try to write down all that happened to him in those few hours. He would not press the matter now, as he presumed it would be too raw a time.

Jonathan shook his head, wide-eyed. If this were any other person, he would feel as though he was on trial, and soon to be judged. No, he was safe here. “I devised a fiction for him, before he made me forget,” he blankly confessed.

He screwed his eyes shut, for the scope of it was almost too much for him to bear; he felt Mina’s hand cover his own. “In the place where the women came in the moonlight, they didn’t. They did not manifest from the dust. I did not run away, screaming, n-not there.”

Jonathan struggled to put it into a semblance of order as it revealed itself to him. He took a breath, and continued. “No. I was not _there_. Rather, I was being bitten near the turrets, in an alcove by the window. After my illness, I couldn’t say if certain fragmented thoughts were real. It is now clear that they were.” He tapped his leg uncertainly, before he recalled the rightful progression of events.

In a softer tone that was lost in thought and far from them, Jonathan spoke. He noted that Van Helsing leaned closer, as he didn’t dare miss a word. “The fair one among them; Ilona, she who sought to trade places with me to satiate her need to transfix; to terrify; to rule with her malediction. She forced me to drink her blood in a similar fashion.” Jonathan shivered, but continued. “I was shoved into the arms of the second, who looked so like him; she...she drank my blood. I broke loose, and fled before the third was able to touch me.”

Mina moved closer to him, to wrap an arm around his shoulders when he covered his face. Even in this wretched climate, she knew his state of mind. She had to reach out to him. He leaned into the touch, and she suspected that nobody else would be able to hold him right now; no, not with such love; not with such trust. Jonathan rubbed her shivering fingers without even noticing it. He only needed to touch her, and gain strength from her, before he could speak again.

“I fled as quickly as I could; there were taunts and cajoles; enticements and screams echoing in my mind. I know not how much of the chorus was real. I cannot say what was a side effect, aside from my dreams long after; that transfer, following my recovery.” He looked Van Helsing in the eyes. How could anyone truly understand?

“Somehow, I felt as though I must be _safer_ with the Count, and indeed, he knew of their transgressions with but a look at my state. He could smell their work. I’m certain he punished them; when he returned, he showed me what I must write. It was inside my head, and I was so... _docile_ , to the point we spoke civilly of such a web of lies as though it was but a chapter of a book, or some verse that did not reflect upon me.” He was dismayed. “He made me sleep, and I recall a sharp pain; I suppose he bit me while I was not myself.”

“That is enough of them, and their touches so foul,” Van Helsing decreed softly. He felt that to probe more would leave this man becoming a tenant downstairs. “We have much to do, friend Jonathan, to keep you away from their wickedness planted in the heart so pure; to protect Madam Mina, as well. Your very souls are in danger, though measures can be taken to aid in the healing, say books so numerous as I have read. I should like to first put the Eucharist upon your brow, Madam Mina, and then upon his, yes. A blessing can be beneficial, following a cursing.”

He moved to pull an envelope from his pocket; he shook out the contents into his wrinkled hand, and held up the Wafer. “We might, by this, protect against ghostly, as well as carnal attack by them again. I should think it will aid us best of all,” he smiled with kindness. “A blessing, to sanctify and drive back the night.”

“Do as you will. Please,” Mina implored. She saw the fortitude in Jonathan’s eyes, as he silently agreed alongside her. She didn’t want her husband’s soul to be lost to him. Not while he was still alive. She didn’t want herself to be stained as she was. She didn’t want any of this.

“You shall be guarded well by us all after this night. You both will,” Van Helsing nodded to himself. He smiled when Madam Mina bravely moved forward, perhaps to demonstrate to her husband that this path was the safest to navigate. “Now let me guard yourself. On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the name of the Father, the Son, and--"

As he placed the Wafer on Mina's forehead, there was a sizzling noise. It scalded straight into the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal. The scream that followed broke Jonathan’s heart to hear; even as he saw, before the sounds died away, he sprang into life and ripped the offending holiness from Van Helsing’s suddenly slack hands.

Jonathan, too, shouted in pain as it lay innocently in his palm; smoke began to drift up. He smelt the burning of his own flesh; he felt the heat, and flung it from himself. It felt as though he had placed his hand upon the range. He saw the awful results, red, and charred around the edges.

Mina went down in a heap, and Jonathan followed in her wake. "Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns our polluted flesh! We must bear our marks of shame until Judgment Day!" Mina wailed. She knew what such a reaction had to signify. They were damned. They were unclean, and unwanted. They would never see their loved ones again, where they had passed beyond their ken. She and her husband must certainly be lost from His grace.

“Even if the Almighty shuns our polluted flesh as abominations, _I_ will never shun _you_. We are in equally dire straits,” Jonathan wildly declared as he held her tight. His palm throbbed, a determined reminder of his soul’s equally unclean state; he cradled it briefly when he let go. He didn’t know what to do in a situation like this. He was close to hysterics, and lost to melodramatic proclamations himself. If he kept this up, he would certainly be cursing the heavens for their misfortune.

They were just as frightened as children in their eventual descent. The thought of damnation terrified them. He shakily kissed the horrible mark upon her forehead, even as he feared that his lips would burn from the smallest glimpse of His power. They didn’t, though his palm still ached from his own brush with that goodness. He soon lost what little composure he had left. His tears were the equal of Mina’s sorrow, as she could no longer stop their flow in light of this latest travesty.

Van Helsing remained where they had parted from him, horrified at having added further anguish. The Dutchman only moved to lean against a table, and quietly put his head to it. It was Arthur that stepped forward to comfort the older man. He lay a hand upon his back, and drew close. The rest of those assembled didn’t catch the hushed exchange of words, though he nodded once and gave Arthur a fond smile when he lifted his damp face again. A handkerchief was gratefully accepted.

“Please, take a breath. You must relax if you are able,” Seward carefully advised with a sigh, for so much had happened on this night to this gentle couple. He was hopeful they would not collapse into a catatonic stupor, like so many of his patients were wont to do. Hysteria and the associating tumult was rising in this couple. If someone didn’t stop it, it could progress into an endless loop as one emotional state fed upon the other, and kept increasing.

Jonathan’s expression was appalled by the very idea as he scrubbed his face of tears, but Seward held up a hand to stay his wrath. Well, what little there was of it. From the corner of his eye, Seward noted that Arthur was taking his leave of them. He understood why. He did not desire to witness another person go down the path Lucy had wandered to its bitter conclusion. He could not reprimand him for that, and he could provide him with a short-lived purpose as he left this room.

“Let Mina get cleaned up," Seward instructed clearly. He hoped it might instill a need to listen to his words, and not just rush about. "Arthur will be at her side. He will give a shout if anything should occur; he will keep a crucifix on his person, yet out of her sight. He will look away, and will not see a thing,” Seward entreated as he carefully wrapped an arm around the man.

“We’ll talk in a different room, too. You can try to eat something filling, and while we do that, I will get you both another room; a change of clothes. You are my guests, and this is no longer fit for polite company,” he finished candidly.

“Polite company,” Jonathan tearfully chuckled, as he reluctantly let go of Mina. It was obvious to everyone that they were still in a state of shock. “Can we be called that? There was no polite company on this night in here. There was only a beast that wanted to take advantage, and use us for his grim desires; his sick games.” A confused thought struck him like a bolt of lightning, then. “We didn’t invite him in...and when he bit me previously, I didn’t have to do so, either. How?”

Seward turned over Jonathan’s hand, once he was allowed to take hold of it. It wasn’t bleeding. “Does this feel as though you were scalded in hot water?” It almost appeared such, although it was a strange affect to him. “Renfield provided the invitation, and was then ignored by his ‘master.’ He gave us the barest details, before we broke in. Haven’t you heard him causing a ruckus tonight?”

Jonathan frowned, starting to calm down, though feeling as though the world was different. Or maybe he was the one that had changed, due to things inflicted upon his soul. “We heard something, didn’t we?” Mina nodded, eerily quiet, just as he was when not being drawn out to speak. Jonathan stared at his palm for a longer moment than should be necessary. He wanted to reconcile events in his head, but it was hard.

Part of him wanted to pretend nothing had happened, but there would be reminders. There was Mina to consider, as well. “I feel marked by a branding iron,” he said simply. One would not forget that they were unfit for singing in a choir of angels with a mark like his, or hers.

The solicitor started violently as a long wail rose in the distance. Seward rubbed his arm, and smiled with a sigh. One grew used to that in time. “I think you have had a few too many shocks. Your nerves are on edge. That was merely Renfield, letting his state of mind be known by all. When I get you something, just be ready for a decidedly irritating clamour to sound a bit...closer.” Jonathan nodded. When Seward returned the cloth to him, he finally used it.

Once Jonathan wiped his face, he appeared to be as white as the sheets he had fallen upon when he found him; so, too, did Mina. He surmised it was from the tragedy of all building up inside, as well as the bites. How much blood had been taken from them? “Now, then. Let us depart this room, and I will summon a maid,” Seward suggested. He felt as though he was almost drawing a patient out of a disorderly quagmire, and into quiet and calm.

He tried to speak soothingly, and supposed a great deal of his words would surely fall on deaf ears. In this state, neither Jonathan nor Mina resisted when they were led from the room.  
\--

Seward was bent low over Jonathan, studying the singed flesh of his hand. He had offered to wrap it, but Jonathan seemed to consider it best to leave it exposed to the air. It was not his dominant hand, so it was likely to handle well enough. Neither were certain if it could become infected, though the skin had not been naturally pierced.

He saw a rush of movement, then, between the curtains, and walked quietly to the window. Peering out, he saw the moon was still as bright as it had been; there were no clouds to obstruct the view of the grounds. He had noticed that Quincey was no longer among them out in the hallway, but had not thought to inquire as to where he had gone. He could now see the man easily enough. He ran across the lawn in a burst of speed, and looked up in the direction of Renfield’s cell.

Then, he studied the horizon as best as he could in that environment; he hid himself within the shadow of a great yew-tree. Seward let the curtain fall closed. He must be tracking their enemy, or seeing that all was well. He doubted that the Count left footprints in the mud. He had other means of locomotion. Perhaps he was just patrolling, for he had done that in the past when they were out on an expedition in the wilderness.

Seward’s appreciative fondness for the man only increased. Before Jonathan could speak, Seward squeezed his shoulder. “It’s only Quincey, and nothing more.” The underlying agitation could be viewed in the poor fellow’s restlessness.

Jonathan’s stomach was a bit too shaky for a meal after everything. He wasn’t sure if it was a side effect, or a psychological blockage that went with it and made him desire to refuse anything put to him. The suggestion of devilled kidneys had been met with utter horror. The gingerbread cake was acceptable, as the ginger could help to soothe his stomach.

“Thank you for this, Dr. Seward...I mean, Jack. I...find I am not the best companion for a late night repast.” He had been ripping little crumbs off and putting them back on the plate, before he finally took a bite. Ordinarily, it would be delicious. It didn’t taste right, as though it had gone off. He hadn’t been able to come up with any conversation that didn’t return to blood and the general horror of their situation.

“Neither is _he_ ,” Seward shrugged, as he lifted a finger. Both men grimaced as the sound of banging and shouting drifted to their ears again. He sighed, rubbing his face. The attendants were told to avoid the wretched soul for a few more hours, no matter how much of a ruckus he made. He checked his pocket watch. And no matter how late that particular hour was, for he was always, technically, on call.

“I would offer him my apologies and tell him I never desired for the Count to have such mastery over my faculties as he did, but I feel that he would do my person serious injury upon the very sight of me,” Jonathan managed with wide eyes, before he took another bite. He found himself staring into space as he imagined the numerous potential outcomes should Renfield escape his cell yet again.

It was a bit more than a slight insult to Renfield’s broken mind that the Count picked them, Jonathan presumed. He was told that Renfield didn’t like it when Jonathan had become pale, and watered down; he had seen him from the window as he paced the grounds. There appeared to be concern for Mina, and animosity for Jonathan. It was a destruction of his very methodology, as he felt he deserved to be so ‘blessed.’

Jonathan rubbed his throat, before glancing down at his palm when it stung. He flexed the hand carefully. The Count had ignored Renfield following his invitation, and he himself had never thought that he ought to darken the man’s cell. Renfield was dangerous right now, given he had realised he was little more than a Judas goat; all metaphysical offers had been rescinded, so he was best avoided for a bit longer. “I think I heard him cause a stir last night...even entranced.”

“Yes, he was quite unruly, wasn’t he?” His men had managed so far, though Jenkins had been severely manhandled and would need time to recuperate. Simmons had admirably volunteered to take up the attendant’s caseload. “I will sedate him, once I think we can reach him without incident,” Seward noted. “I was hoping he would tire himself out, before I placed him in a straitjacket. I shouldn’t like to open the cell door at all at this juncture, with the fear he would do you harm after bolting.”

“Perhaps when the sun rises?” Jonathan speculated. He nodded as Seward poured him some tea, having decided that, perhaps, brandy wasn’t quite acceptable when one was low on blood. He was just trying not to dwell on the residual iron taste of it. He was trying not to think of everything swirling through his head. He wondered how Mina was faring.

“Perhaps at noon if these were normal circumstances,” Seward wanly smiled. “You haven’t read everything of mine that Mina compiled, have you? You’ll see his ways when you do.” Jonathan shook his head. He’d thought not, given how set upon he had been. Who had the time to read, when fangs were in their throat? Who could focus in the aftermath?

Jonathan shook his head. “Only up to a particular spot, as Mina and I found order in your words. I wasn’t sleeping well before this. After I excused myself from the meeting, I recall hearing the clacking of the typewriter as Mina worked, and then...little else, save for two red eyes, which I believed to be a dream. Mina found the proof of his activities.” He put down the cake, a contrite mood apparent. “I’m sorry, but...I--I cannot eat more than this.”

Seward shook his head. He hoped the poor man could get some nourishment into him in the days ahead, but he could understand his current lack of appetite. He was sympathetic, having suffered an ebb in appetite himself. “Of course. No apologies necessary, Jonathan,” he noted without worry. At least he had eaten something.

“I wondered if we should all wake to find ourselves in straitjackets,” Seward noted in regard to his earlier question. When Jonathan winced at the very idea, he knew he had misspoken. It invariably called to mind the state that Count Dracula had left Jonathan in, following his escape.

“Ah, but of course. The brain fever already left you reeling. You’ve fought back such a spell, following such strain. And still more lays ahead of us.” Seward knew of the man’s past experience with brain fever. He was pleased at his recovery, but this must certainly be a setback. That had to leave unseen marks, or some manner of wound within the psyche. He had pondered such things with previous patients, and seen all manner of endings.

He rose from the table, taking another good look at the man. He balanced himself on the side of his chair, and crossed his arms. “Do your best to keep yourself focused on Mina’s safety, and your own well-being, such as it is.” He recalled how Lucy had swiftly succumbed, though in that unfortunate time it was a nightly visitation.

Perhaps they could drive Count Dracula off before he did the same here. Seward gestured, almost helpless when it came to his recommendations. This was well out of his field, until the Professor had provided all the evidence. “It’s all I can really advise, as you are truly fighting for control of your life, and your...your spirit.” He did so prefer the world of science and not superstition, but this yoke had been thrown upon them.

Jonathan closed his eyes for a moment, and dredged up verses once committed to memory for his wife’s joy. Well, his best friend’s joy in those days. It had also tickled Lucy, for she had been listening at the door on that peaceful morning.  
  
“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. There is a rapture on the lonely shore. There is society, where none intrudes. By the deep sea, and music in its roar.” He glanced over to Seward with a quiet reticence, and wondered just what this learned man should make of his suddenly delving into quotations. He felt that he must explain himself.

“It was a favourite of Mina’s when we were courting. Lord Byron penned it. It is a fragment of _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_. I don’t know why I think upon those words now, but yet I do. Perhaps it—it fits, in a fashion. The Count is the ocean; his blood provides both a roar and tranquil music at interludes. It makes an artificial rapture within, or...or it did.” It sounded too poetical when uttered aloud. Yet still, he found himself clinging to it.

The poem was from a happier time, when they were still ignorant of the monsters hiding in the shadows. It was almost a beacon for his soul. Directing his full attention to Seward rather than to what might one day, he tilted his head. “Do I sound like one of your patients? I only wonder, as you have given it due consideration towards yourself.” He surely must sound like one with such a question.

 _There_ was a trace of the psychological wounds he had pondered earlier, Seward found himself thinking. Of course Jonathan must doubt himself. He had to swim these waters with great care, or he might cause further damage to the man. “If this were all a fantasy, yes, you _could_ compete with Renfield for the magnitude of strange and sheer horrific accounts that I must weed through to reach the truth. However, you are a _sane_ man, Jonathan. We can all attest to that when you are your own man.” He wasn’t sure _how_ , but he was rational; ordered; lucid. He had just had experiences that left everyone astounded.

Jonathan pondered that. “What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal,” he murmured as he hesitantly touched the bite mark. “Yes. Of course.”

“Do you feel especially well enough that we might pop in and see how Mina fares with Arthur?” Seward asked as he pushed back his chair. He did a double take, and then shook his head. Beneath the lamp, it appeared as though Jonathan’s already salt and pepper hair had grown _whiter_ from tonight's succession of shocks. He had never had a patient where that old wives’ tale had actually happened, and momentarily pondered alerting Jonathan to the fact. No; perhaps it was not permanent.

Jonathan indicated that it was so. He accepted the offered aid when he moved to rise from his place at the table. They left the room just as quickly as one could, when so much blood had been shed.


	6. Chapter 6

Jonathan sat back upon the divan in the bedroom, and found himself, at last, opening his journal to write again. He should not be deterred through nefarious means this time. He had not fully desired to do so, even when Van Helsing had confirmed his experiences as factual. Not even when all accounts were being compiled, and left him as silent. Something always stayed his hand, though he knew not what it was.

Maybe on some level, he had known a piece of his recollection was false, and was frightened of himself; of Ilona, and her companions; of the Count. He couldn’t say for certain. And yet, the stew of emotions bubbling over in the wake of the Count’s monstrous baptism made him do it. If events continued to hold to their present course, then he would surely have a lifetime’s worth of experiences before the end of the week!

It should leave him debating whether he ought not to begin a second or third journal. Surely he would run out of pages in this one soon! After a moment of hesitation about how much he should admit, he shook his head, and began to write.

‘As I must write something or go madly into a cell of Dr. Seward’s, I have once more lifted my pen to the heavens, and found myself scribbling away. I shouldn’t much like to be confined in those quarters, if Mr. Renfield has it out for me.

After the mark was seared upon Mina’s brow, and upon my palm for my desire to help her, she and I were sporadically separated for a period of two days upon the recommendation of Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward.

Away from their eyes, we still found our paths intertwining both in the hallway and through secret rendezvous, so that we might provide words of comfort and consolation. Dr. Seward realised soon after that it was an impossible task, and, perhaps, healthier in the long run for us to be in the company of each other. He left us to mingle at our own discretion.

Bah! I should term him Jack in the privacy of these pages and in public like all the rest, lest there become a strange confusion. I believe the two want to observe the phenomenon set out before them, to see what we are induced to do—or to see what I find myself doing, as there are two bloodlines seated or fused within me.

Were I to ‘blow my stack,’ as Mr. Morris might so floridly put it with his charming American vernacular, and release my pent up frustrations at all of it, I suppose they would pity me, for falling ever faster…though the contagion _has_ flowed through me the longest, being from _two_ poisoned wells. They may look upon me as a wolf among the sheep. I checked, and yes, my canine teeth _do_ appear mildly on the pointier side, but nothing like _his_.

After I tried and failed to break my fast at Jack’s table, having only room for cake crumbs, with the infuriated cries of Renfield as our background sonata, I found myself unable to lay abed. I tossed and turned that first remainder of the night. The good doctor had provided another bedroom; another shirt, and still, I could only think of Count Dracula whenever I closed my eyes. I could only think of his lips upon my throat, and of that reeking mouth gloating with his cruelty.

I had wretched dreams on the second night. Upon the third night, I could still see his red eyes whenever I closed my own. Therefore, failing to sleep, I wandered. I literally tripped over Mr. Morris when I was no longer paying attention to my surroundings, for he was lurking in a bush too close to the path. To his credit, he caught me before I fell and did myself further harm. I suppose he was laying a trap, though he did not explain himself, and I did not ask.

We spoke at length on other subjects, he and I. I found in him a charitable companion even if his slang could become worryingly contagious, and learned that he refused to see me helpless again. He was not so strange, nor as uncivilised as I might have expected, given his occupation. And, of course, given my intervention in the matter of the Count’s great bat form. He expects (and possibly hopes for, with his boisterous nature) a fight to break out any day now, supposing guns or knives being drawn.

I am inclined to disagree in the matter of all out war, and pointed out there were to be no cannons fired upon the grounds; perhaps snares and nets would do better prior to the staking. Perhaps that was his intent, when he was out in the garden.

“I’d like to show you my collection anyway. Even if I believe you are in your right mind _now,_ you might not be up for pickin’ later. Come on, while we don’t have the docs putting their noses into things.” He took me by the hand, and led me to what had become his rooms. While he was inclined to share it with Arthur, he was currently on his lonesome.

As we entered, I laid my eyes upon Mina; she was seated in the corner, upon a plush blue chair. I kissed her cheek, and loved her pretty smile upon my entrance, no matter how she might have become paler from our experience. I dared not brush the mark on her brow, for surely it is sensitive. “He had the same thought for me, and found me first,” she revealed with a soft chuckle. Indeed, across her knees sat a Winchester rifle.

“This little lady has _taste,_ and that one’s got good range and style. What’s your fancy? Even if it doesn’t tickle you right away, see what pulls you to it; see if it works for your grip,” Quincey urged me. I suspected that he might kidnap a willing Mina at some point and sneak her to a place beyond the trees, where none will know of their actions.

I feel that he will teach her how to fire it, if he has not already given her a quick lesson. I will look away and pretend nothing untoward is occurring, should he do so; I can always become the lookout for them.

He then unfolded cloths from each item that was already situated upon the bed. I was amazed by how he came to possess so much. I did not know there was such a variety of blades! Curved, jagged, or straight, he had them all. I knew of swords, thanks to the Count; I knew daggers could be used in a pinch, but _this!_

Some appeared quite formidable, with at least three that appeared ready to lop off my hand, were I to become careless. I felt about the handle of each, and feared that I may accidentally spill blood. And yet, taking out my emotions upon the Count...I did once strike him with a shovel. I did leave a mark upon his forehead. Slashing a cheek or arm before I were to be stopped...this, I regret to admit, does have its appeal.

I should like to plunge something through the mark I already left on him, but that may not be possible. I think Mina feels the same way. Have we changed, or is this something that was always in us? I cannot say for certain, given all we have endured.

“This one,” I marvelled in a hushed tone. I held a weapon aloft that was almost longer than my forearm. I pondered swiping with it, as a pirate would, but felt it would only cut the wallpaper apart. Quincey waited until I put it down before he clapped me on the shoulder. “Thank you.” After looking down at my marred palm, I did have one question before we parted.

“His brain is supposed to send a summons to us,” I relayed. “Do you know what I wonder? Might we be able to purify the blade, or the bullets, with holy water? If it might ward me off with the sensation of holiness, prior its use, then would it not do the same to _him?”_

Our supposition, after momentary conjecture, is that it must be so. He has sworn that he will do the honours in private; it will just be poured upon the blade, and not the handle or sheath. If I then feel as though I am mildly repelled in some way, without actually touching it, we shall know the addition was a success.

I was about to step away, when I saw something else propped in the corner. There was one item I had overlooked, though it was not a good fit. “Oh! Is that--? Isn’t it silver embossed, or is it pure?” I prodded a rapier with a silver pommel and guard, and discovered that at least one aspect of the lore is mistaken.

Mina was as intrigued as I was in that aspect, and, despite my unnecessary concern, reached out to stroke it as well. Or if it were not a mistake, then at the very least, until the first death it appears as though silver is not a weakness among the infected.

Mr. Morris was disappointed, as he had so hoped that silver bullets could be implemented. I cannot say why, but Mina had a secret smile and said she would explain later. I am inclined to guess that it all connects back to her research. Quincey has promised to keep both the kukri, and the rifle, safely with him wherever we go; he has a mysterious weapons cache as it is, so I suppose that nobody will notice. These will be kept from us, until such time as we must certainly have no choice but to bear arms.

Mina and I departed the room, arm in arm, with our secret. I kissed her hand, and opened the door to our room in a chivalrous manner. There was a spark in her eyes, not unnatural, as I closed the door behind us, and turned the key.

We may soon have a plan. We will not be in league with the devil. Do we dare to speak of it, when others could overhear us before we are yet organised? Not yet…

Despite the pain, despite all the worry that has taken hold of our lives, we found comfort in each other. There was solace with each touch; each caress. Few words were spoken. Earlier, we had felt a passion rising that was not our own, induced by the Count. _This_ was us. There was no doubt of it. This was most assuredly from ourselves, tempered as it was with a slow gentleness.

As I know the others will surely read this in time, I almost find myself becoming too candid. And yet, I believe this is a moment of privacy and love; it is not to be shared. I shall therefore pull a curtain over the activities that followed. It was merely the intimacy of what became our first time as man and woman; of husband and wife.

 _Mem: I thought I heard the distinct clink of Quincey’s spurs upon the floor outside, in the hallway, though they retreated in the heat of matters before I could pull away. Mina affirms hearing a quiet_ _exclamation_ _of joy from the man, and an even softer ‘yee haw,’ though we are both choosing to believe it is for our choices of weapon, and the hunt ahead._

We sought comfort and sanity within our bodies, pain and horror set aside for a time. Suffice to say, in the aftermath we found ourselves basking in a lovely contentment. It helped to stimulate our resolve and understanding of the threat ahead, when there was a momentary peace.

I love her too much to stop fighting, whatever has been done; whoever has done it. I know that a seed took root within me some time ago; I know that his blood has watered it further. The vines have entangled my soul. I know that some thoughts are not completely my own, and thus go against my own nature. I trust that Mina will not let _me_ go quietly, either. She proved that these past few months. We must find the inspiration to untie together the thread that knots itself to our spirits.

We must think with grace; with beauty, wrapped in our desecration, and come to understand what we can. In the stillness of these early morning hours, I feel as though, somehow, we are blessed. Things do not feel quite so desolate. We may soon have a plan, though first I feel that I must have a consultation with her. We will not be in league with the devil so long as we have ways through which we might govern our own actions.

Mina is waking up, and I pray that she garnered some contentment last night, as well. Her blessedly lovely mind must surely have some new viewpoints to instruct me from, as we learn what our course is to be. So I end my entry at this place of hope. Let there be some sanity in these quarters, in a swirling tide, in this changing world that rapidly fills anew with phantasmagoria.

I must rip out several pages, not to disguise some sin, but to provide inspiration.

I have a vow to make.'  
\--

Jonathan shifted over upon his place on the divan, so that he was not sprawled across it anymore; his eyes moved to where Mina made a tiny noise as she woke. He chose to watch her as consciousness truly revived, until she finally sat up and saw where he was. His gestures encouraged Mina to come and sit beside him. Mina rose, first wrapping a shawl around her shoulders so that she would not grow colder than she already was.

He could empathise, for he felt much the same. She couldn’t forget what was to become of them, but he hoped that she saw a shred of optimism in his features. Writing had led him to these thoughts; it had shown him while they were right to be afraid, there could be another way to salvage things. If there wasn’t, they would cope.

Jonathan caressed her arm, and thought as he kissed Mina’s hair. He didn’t want to speak his feelings aloud, for they had a guard posted at their door just in case there was any cause to raise the alarm.

After all had fallen into quiet several hours ago, as they held each other, they had listened as grunting sounds had approached. They had been frightened, until Jonathan had peeked out the door. Quincey assured them he hadn’t been spying, just setting up his post. Despite having a room just across the hall, he had managed to wrestle the mattress out here. He had brought several weapons, and placed them within arm’s reach. If he heard a sound that wasn’t right, he would pounce.

Jonathan pressed a finger to his lips. At her befuddled expression, he smiled, and picked up the pages he had torn from his journal. He found himself writing with alacrity, as his heightened emotions dictated all that would fall upon the page. He glanced at his wife, and saw her curiosity morph into concern.

He took Mina’s hand, and wrapped his own around it; he kissed her palm, to assure her he was himself. He gave a small grin that he hoped would inspire confidence, despite the solemnity of the promise he held before him. He stared down at the page that lay on his lap with concern.

At last, he slid the note over to her after a bashful look, after reading it over three times to confirm that all was exactly as desired. Her eyes were inquisitive and gleaming. He hoped she approved of his suppositions and his declarations. He hoped he had not overstepped his bounds, or misread her in any way.

She seemed to be worried for the space of a second. He waited while she read it, taking in every flicker of expression that crossed her face. Yes, it was ripped from his journal, much as the truth of a particular night was torn loose from his mind and replaced with a fabrication. It was pulled from his soul, and he hoped she would accept his vow.

By her pleasured reaction when she was finished, he presumed it was the correct course. The contents were thus.

_‘To one thing I have made up my mind. If you would not stop me from going into that unknown and terrible land alone, nay, if we fail, then I should gladly stand at your side until we are judged before God for all of our sins that surely must weigh upon us in the future. You are my Wilhelmina. I place your heart; your soul; your love above the rest of the world. I place you before me, with this knowledge, including whatever I might do, whatever I might say with another using my mind and tongue and hands._

_Because this has happened not just once, but several times to me; I have been tasted,_ _and drank in return_ _; I have been enthralled, and used. I will know if he ever happens to use you, from a single taste of him. I have been forced to drink by two of them. You are aware of the danger from being in my presence; you have seen another in my eyes before. You have yet to turn away. Please do not do so now, for I shall not._

 _You will have my soul, as corrupted as it may be, sullied, or no, in recompense for what is laid at our door. I will never leave you. I will forever love you, whether or not_ _we_ _fully succumb. I will forever love you, should you be_ _swayed into temptation or not_ _. Let this, the holiest love, be the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks. If both of us must fall, let neither of us be parted.’_

It was as though the sun itself was in the room with him, as Mina’s face practically glowed with vivacious joy. She kissed his cheeks, before she pulled away. She paused as inspiration struck anew. Mina pointed to the journal, and accepted another scrap of paper. He had been prepared, in the event she may require a page.

From this, she began to write. He slid closer to see as she used the back of his journal for a writing table. He wrapped an arm around her waist, and watched as she devised the path they may take to lay a trap for the Count in his own country. He knew the roads; she knew the maps as a whole. He knew the people; he knew the places they might stay, so none would suspect them. She knew the docks; the timetables of the trains, and the ships. Then, their battle plan laid out before them from his own jotted notes in contribution, he kissed her.

He clutched her hands, and felt quietly blissful with her so close to him. They were themselves for this time. They could feel each other’s hearts, and know they were alive. They were not transformed by him entirely. They were not undead and lost. Several paths still stretched out before them.

She folded the pages so neither would be lost. She placed the most precious of all within a pocket of one of her petticoats. Jonathan’s vow would not be parted from her. It was safer there than, perhaps, in her bodice or corset, even if it could have been closer to her heart. The crinkling would draw attention in either of those places. She silently strode to the door, and gave a gentle knock upon the wood.

It was a warning to the one in the hallway, whoever it might be. Given the lateness of the hour, the shift may have changed. Somehow, she doubted it, given a certain someone’s resolve and protectiveness. As she opened the door, she saw that it was still dear Quincey. She may have stepped on him without that quick rap, as she saw him rising to his feet. She smiled to assure him there was no danger, when he might have drawn a weapon.

She passed him the papers, with their plans; their future schemes; their hopes and dreams, and grasped his hands. He seemed to guess the seriousness of his errand before she ever spoke. “That is for Van Helsing; we need to see him at once. We shall soon argue our case to be with all of you as you chase him, come what may. We want to be there when the monster is loosed from his Immortal coil.” He saw her resolve and dashed away. Mina held out her hand, and Jonathan joined her at the door.

They would luxuriate in their closeness as long as they were able. Jonathan traced the burn on her forehead, before she nestled even deeper in his arms. Unconsciously, they rocked each other to provide comfort. They stood at the threshold, keeping watch for good or ill.

“If only these plans were a journey to our honeymoon,” Jonathan bemoaned as wryly as he was able. His wit was shaken, though not entirely parted from his company. “In a climate far more just, we would have fond memories of such, I trust. Someday, perhaps, in another form.” He felt Mina give a soft laugh against his chest.

Mina glanced up at him, pleased by his wistful tone. “Perhaps in a year not so calamitous as this,” she whispered in return. “Perhaps when we are free.”  
\--

Jonathan and Mina were fully dressed by the time Van Helsing sent word that he was only rushing to their side if they didn’t reach him within half an hour. It seemed that he didn’t want to invade the sanctity of their new chambers. And so, they would be using Seward’s breakfast nook.

It had taken these past few nights for them to feel comfortable in their own skins again, just to concoct these ideas. Van Helsing looked at their eyes and seemed to guess the reason they were together. He was wise enough to know these things. An impish air came and went from him, as he knew better than to dwell upon that matter. He lifted the paper that Mr. Morris had delivered.

“Ah, but when you bring me this, and cry out ‘we have still more!,’ I am beside myself," the Dutchman proclaimed with happiness. “Two shining diamonds cannot be so broken by his might. They are only scuffed, a little polish required, yes?”

“We had to put our minds together in the proper hour,” Mina allowed as Jonathan squeezed her hand; she stroked his fingers with one thumb, almost without looking. “Our tongues felt tied at one point. We went to work tonight, in several ways,” she delicately revealed.

“Based on that, and how easily it appears we sink into trances now, we think we have the means to track his steps. Mina?” Jonathan waved, giving her the floor. It was her idea, from a unique conundrum, when he momentarily fell away from himself as he gazed upon the flame of a flickering candle. He had given answers to questions in such a roundabout way, that she had known they were not truly _his_ replies. He supposed the Count had filtered through.

“My mind could seek out his, when he is most vulnerable. When he is most open to us,” Mina revealed. “Jonathan and I feel more ourselves at dawn; at dusk, most especially now. If you could induce a mesmeric trance soon, we would learn if our methods are sound!”

She looked at Jonathan, and gave a quick summation of how they reached this hypothesis. “We realised it might be too dangerous for him, since another has come when he is also asleep, to disturb him. And...because of how she exchanged her presence with his. We dare not tempt her.”

“This is wise,” Van Helsing agreed. He glanced at Jonathan. “And you would not stay in the room, so noble? You would not be in the corner? Could they not spy through you and scheme as we work?” Jonathan shook his head, and confirmed he would keep himself otherwise detained or occupied at those times.

Mina’s eyes were bright as she continued. She and Jonathan had discussed this next aspect thoroughly before they arrived. “Also, you must recall one further item. When he calls, we must come. He said such to us. Over land or over sea, we will go to him when he commands it. Why, between the two of us, Jonathan and I could hoodwink you, or any of the others, and go in secret against our own wills; we might very well destroy anyone in our way. Do you dare lose two of your best leads in such an event?”

Jonathan leaned forward to add to their case, but suspected that Mina had done well enough. He didn’t need to echo the Count’s exact phrasings. He was proud of her. Van Helsing seemed to acquiesce, but he still gave his closing argument. “We must give chase; we must be with you on the hunt for those reasons, and one other. Time is vital. He has centuries to spread his disease, and we have but a scant handful of years.”

He glanced at Mina, and revealed what he feared the most. “ _Yes_ , he might call us before you could stop him. However, there is also the matter of our deaths, sir. We could very well take our last breaths in some minute that you are not looking. Should we die, as you have so helpfully informed us, we could but rise and join him. I was touched first; could not I be the first to succumb?”

There was also the matter of blending in with the superstitious locals if they were allowed on this excursion. “Gloves cover my situation well enough. Mina’s finest hat, replete with a mourning veil should allay suspicion. We might pretend we are mourning a member of our extended family.” He touched her cheek gently, recalling that she and Lucy were closer than friends, and even closer than sisters could have been. He thought of his own unique friendship with the woman; of picnics with Mina, with her playfully amused to be their chaperone.

Mr. Hawkins had been like a father to both of them. It was not so far-fetched as one may, at first, suppose. “We _are_ mourning for many souls of late, so we are not fabricating all that much of anything. I’ve also shown previously how Mina knows the train schedule by heart, whenever you feel it’s best that we spring into action.”

“And you need his solicitor’s connections to pick up his trail, where I cannot,” Mina proudly declared when another thought struck her.

Van Helsing had been mulling over the thought of lives cut so tragically short by the nature of the bite, especially following the sad case of losing Miss Lucy. In the wake of these two becoming victims, his timeline had become baffled. He had been reluctant to put the couple in further danger. He didn’t want them present should anything untoward occur, and leave them all in ruin. And yet, their ideas had such merit that to say no to them and close his ears would be madness.

He was persuaded by them, though, and knew when he was bested. They had written down the Count’s itinerary, such as they knew, in those so wonderful papers he was provided. They were both so very right. If it kept them from colluding or falling into damnation through a circular fashion, it was prudent. He could keep a close eye on their joined transformations, and learn if Jonathan’s case careened ever faster due to his previous taste.

He would be able to ascertain if he should pound a stake through a heart and mourn, or rejoice in their being saved. “Yes, yes, you are correct. We will bring all, and not seek to shield the eyes so pretty and wise, or the heart so valiant and courageous,” Van Helsing conceded. “Now, away! Let us gather provisions for this quest so great.”

Jonathan’s gratitude was apparent. “I shall start packing,” he began as Mina rose. “Do show me what we cannot be without?” He suspected the travelling typewriter should be included. Mina linked arms with him, as they hurried back to the room from whence they had come to begin the process.

“Of course,” Mina quickly agreed. She wouldn’t leave him to do such a task on his own. With his arm wrapped around her shoulders, they hurried away to begin the process. They must be ready for the moment they were informed of the hour of their departure.


	7. Chapter 7

They left Charing Cross Station on the morning of October 10th. They had reached Paris the same night without incident, and taken the places secured for them on the Orient Express. Events were proceeding like clockwork now, with periodic consultations of their foe’s progress by way of Mina’s mesmerism.

They would be travelling night and day, for their itinerary would allow for nothing less. In just one more day, on the 15th, they should disembark at the station in Varna. If they didn’t have a mishap, they should be there at approximately five o’clock by Jonathan’s estimates. What happened after that was out of their hands.

Jonathan only allowed himself to acquire the barest of details. From Mina’s daily reports, there was little else out there save for ‘canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creaking.’ And the regularly scheduled ‘lapping of waves.’

He had arranged prior to leaving London that in the event of his death or becoming fully in league with the Count on all levels, the entirety of his funds, few particular assets, and estate should fall into Mina’s hands. If she joined him in the great beyond to feed on human blood, or were slain, then the next beneficiary would become whosoever survived within their hunting party.

It was a paltry sum when one compared it to the Holmwood fortune, but Jonathan was proud of what he had earned in his short time leading the firm. If the men all made it out alive, and did not die mysteriously in the aftermath, then it would be split equally following sale of the house and any adjoining property.

Given the deep love shared between Quincey, Jack, and Arthur, Jonathan had anticipated it might reflect poorly to an onlooker if such an artifact were not taken into account and included in the will. He shouldn’t leave an outsider open to the idea that one might ‘bump the other off,’ and be ‘rolling in dough,’ as Quincey’s slang so succinctly put it.

It thereby tied up all the legal loose ends. He had collected the wills of everyone else. Those particulars were left in a safe in his residence, to be collected by his best employee in the event that no one returned from abroad. The package would then be transferred to Samuel F. Billington & Son.

The Billingtons had been quite courteous, and displayed true Yorkshire hospitality when Jonathan had travelled to Whitby for information about the boxes of earth. Having spoken with them at length, he found that he trusted them. In their capable hands, when the time was right, everything would be distributed to interested parties within the surviving families. It was a gloomy procedure, but a necessary one.

With that taken care of, they were soon on the trail of the _Czarina Catherine_.  
\--  
  


As their train continued to rumble along smoothly, Quincey pondered taking the Harkers somewhere nice sometime, if everyone made it out the other side of this as people, that was. And not as monsters only dedicated to blood and each other, skittering away like unnatural varmints into the night. Perhaps they would fancy Texas; it was dusty, but they had all seen worse.

The ranch could be nice and relaxing, if you avoided the snakes and scorpions. Sure, you couldn’t plug the holes in every little place. They could just shake out their boots and pretty dresses in the mornings, and they would be fine.

Quincey studied Jonathan as he drifted off a bit again. He glanced at the passing sky out the window, and judged that, yes, he’d be like this a bit longer, and then spring awake like he had been struck with cold water. He sighed. On second thought, perhaps a fella that once had brain fever should build up to that, rather than having it sprung on him all at once.

He resolved that it was perhaps better to consult with Jack when he wasn’t busy. Camping could be too much of a reminder of being chased by wolves, and lost for Lord knew how long in a forest. He shook his head. Jonathan and Mina had been wandering like ghosts for the last little while, silent and pale by day as they continued in the direction of the place the Count would call home.

The two had found themselves growing ill at ease among polite company; they grew tired too easily, Jonathan even more than Mina. They had even curled up to sleep wherever they happened to be, if it was an aisle or not, and wrapped around themselves protectively. Jonathan once bared those not entirely innocent canine teeth at Quincey as the cowboy had first tried to rouse them, and then made to lift Mina up and take her to bed.

Jonathan had swiftly apologised, of course, once he understood the situation. He had squeezed the man’s hand and assured him that he himself had not meant anything by it. Of course he hadn’t wanted to behave in such a manner; only what was taking over a piece at a time did, and Quincey caught him leering at throats in off moments.

Mina rallied wonderfully after that. She had muttered blearily that she really should go speak with Van Helsing, to arrange another session of mesmerism at the proper hour. With that excuse, she had extracted herself from the situation with an odd expression of discontent.

That had settled it in Quincey’s mind, since the men had discussed it earlier. Jonathan required chaperoning to keep the vampire inklings at bay, or to warn the rest if he gave in and drank someone dry. Quincey had taken Jonathan by the arm, gentleman style, and urged him to go to the dining car. Even if Jonathan scarcely had an appetite these days, Quincey _did_.

Jonathan was soon busy reading several of Seward’s accounts about Renfield. They were the ones that he hadn’t had the chance to go over before the Count had chosen to start drinking from him. Jonathan stretched, and then listened to something within him; it was like a quiver of nerves, and he knew that it was but the prelude to something more; it always was. He quietly put the pages down, and rubbed his arms.

He pulled his legs up beneath him as an oppressive cold sought to seep through his defences. It almost felt like Ilona was trying something, but it was different. It was like she was seated right beside him, and about to whisper into his ear. She was reaching out to him; she wanted him, or she wanted to use him. He tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. What the devil was she doing to him this time?

Quincey moved to sit directly across from him, having suspected he might be in some form of distress. “Is it Ilona, or the Count?” He hadn’t witnessed this type of thing before, so it was as strange as it was impressive.

Jonathan held up a hand to beg for a moment’s silence, before he flinched. She had been unable to enter him fully, and was raging.The shriek was piercing, even if it was just in his mind. It would have to be the Count’s blood within his veins that provided an obstacle she could not overcome. Soon, there was a blessed quiet; he could relax. Dracula had easily driven the woman back in the castle. Why not within his mind, through that diabolical connection?

“It was her, but she’s done with me in that manner,” Jonathan hissed in annoyance. A shaky hand wiped his brow, and he uncurled. “She’s not getting back in; so far as I can fathom, he won’t let her.” He felt such disappointment at that that it frightened him; he felt himself instinctively reaching out for her, and couldn’t stop himself. “I dare not keep rosary beads on my person, but those have worked in the past, as you’ve surely read.”

Quincey nodded. He most certainly had. He was grateful for small mercies, even if it was the one they were hunting that had inadvertently helped them out. Damn it all, but he’d left his crucifix in his other coat, back at the compartment. “How often can she do that? And is she listening in at this very second?” He knew Jack and Van Helsing had theorised the Count was using Mina to do that, but what about Jonathan? Could two listen in at once?

Jonathan felt he should lie, though finally told the truth. “She isn’t right now. It’s nothing like it was, since the Count made me drink from him. Before, she came to me through dreams, and—I—I think she did take a peek from time to time; I would feel a shimmer of something else inside my heart.”

He suspected the Count’s power was a barrier she could not normally cross, though she did try her level best. Had she been defeated from that route forever? Only time would tell. In regard to the fellow's presumed implication, following an uncomfortably long silence, he continued. “I am uncertain of him,” he allowed. He moved around the papers again, more than evidently seeking to return to his previous task, before a distraction crept in.

Jonathan knew he had never seen Quincey with a notebook in hand, and his mood shifted to something lighter. “You don’t keep a diary, do you? Not even for completion's sake? Your input could save one who omitted something vital.” There were letters and telegrams, yes, but what of Quincey's thoughts? He smiled when Quincey shook his head.

“You are the only one among us without the desire to write overly long, with almost excellent recollection,” he teased. He still wasn’t sure how Mina had captured the flavour of Swales’ dialect so perfectly; it had been a chore to aid her in the typing of it, when she read it aloud.

“Nah. The rest of you fill in all the blanks in the world, and I'll sit back and watch you scribblin' away,” Quincey dismissed. It wasn’t something he’d feel comfortable doing, unless the battle was done. Then, it would just be reminiscing. “I’d just be crawling where you’ve already ridden hard. It's like knittin'. Takes a certain kind of person to sit there for eons and do it, and I'm not the sort.”

Jonathan understood, and would not press the matter. “I merely supposed that you had a great many tales under your belt. Perhaps one day you could share them?” He seemed the sort of fellow that would regale him with tall tales around a campfire. He had read Lucy’s account of his attempted proposal, and found his words entertaining, even if the outcome was sad.

Quincey poked the solicitor in the shoulder with a meaningful finger, and nodded seriously. “As many as I'm able, even if I have to carry ya home over the back of a horse, rolled up in a carpet to keep out the sunshine. That's a promise.” He decided he might be ordering some stew once Jonathan was lost in his reading. He’d just managed to steal an uneaten pie from the nearby table.

A whiff of excellent fare wafted their way from the kitchens, then, as a door opened and swung shut again. Jonathan appeared uncomfortable; almost disgusted, and not interested in the least. “You don’t get ill from the food now, right?” Quincey wondered. There was a repulsion, sure, but was there a physical problem with it, too?

Jonathan was encouraged by the man’s curiosity. He contemplated his words, picking them carefully before he spoke. “Your apple pie is quite sweet, yes? When I last sampled the cuisine yesterday, it...tasted much like the results were I to fall face first into a cold hearth and get a mouthful. It is like ashes upon my tongue. Few things hold their correct flavour.”

He shared a look with Quincey when he raised his head again. He need not say what would bring colour to his palate and leave him desiring more. Jonathan still sipped water as he must, and ate his regular quantity as best he could, but the bouquet and the texture was just off.

“Everything is spoiled or rotten to me, even if it is fresh from the oven. I am afraid I would become a poor diner; I would become the sort to send all I had back to the kitchens if I requested a feast,” Jonathan continued with a rueful grin. “Nothing is quite as aromatic as it once was, either,” he noted with incredible candour. “I presume the process was expedited, as that aspect became apparent only following the inclusion of _his_ blood.”

“So I’m _not_ driving you to distraction whenever I take a bite,” Quincey confirmed. While it was good to know, he felt bad for the guy.

“No, you needn’t worry about that,” Jonathan assured him with a tiny smile. He couldn’t feel upset when it was truly a curious malady in many ways. “Pray continue with what I do hope is surely the best dessert you have ever tasted.” Arthur had paid enough for the tickets, so it had better be a lovely meal, with a bountiful wine-press forthcoming. His mind quickly shied away from that descriptor, for _he_ had been called that by the Count.

Quincey dug into his dessert. Jonathan decided he had best return to reading, while his mind was fresh, if strained, from this latest experience. He glanced around once; it felt strange that so few souls were aboard. It was only their group, the staff, the engineer, and whatever skeleton crew was required to keep it moving. Thanks to money from Arthur being put in the right hands, they were able to do this.

There might be one extended family in coach, since they were en route to a funeral in the Balkans, from what he had heard. However, they had not had occasion to bump into one another. He began to read again, keen to see exactly what Renfield had done. What were his reactions in reflection of Dracula’s presence, aside from running to Carfax? Would he perceive a bit of himself or his future from the wretched exchange of blood?

He was repulsed by the eating of insects and sparrows. He was relieved that Jack had denied the man a kitten. He felt strange things stirring within him as his eyes moved across the page. He reached the place where the man had attacked his friend.

_He was lying on his belly on the floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my wounded wrist. He was easily secured, and to my surprise, went with the attendants quite placidly, simply repeating over and over again, "The blood is the life! The blood is the life!"_

The blood was the life. His fingers traced the words. Jonathan grew intrigued; there was desire rising in his own belly, too. He felt disgust towards that patient, though he had been aware of his proclivities. He also reviled himself once realisation of his own conflicting needs struck him.

He froze, as his eyes began to drift shut. Unlike Ilona, the Count was not as weak. This was not a soft pummeling at the outskirts of his mind; this was not a siren’s song to pull him into the sea with a gentleness of wonder. No, instinctively crying out for the woman against his will had left him open. The Count knew the way in, for he had passed into his mind before like a whisper.

He had enthralled him in the castle; he had done so again with his wife. It was a simple matter to follow a path already carved. It was a simple matter to listen to his innermost desires, and strike within that vulnerability. He was calling up the portion of Jonathan that was in league with him.

They would take up the motions for him, if he assented to their control. It felt as though the Count were a tidal wave; or, perhaps, given those dreadful eyes, he was more a fire blazing a pathway through the forest of Jonathan’s nerves, left dry and weak from previous visitations.

He sensed the time had arrived when his power was greatest. Jonathan’s eyes opened slowly, taking in the sunset that was leaving the clouds a glorious red. Soon, it would pass beyond the mountains; soon, darkness would be in full swing. A dreamy lassitude began to sweep over him.

Another mind was beginning to pour through Jonathan. It felt like there was a sinister mist, creeping down the connection they had. Then, it coiled and twisted through his limbs as he remained trapped between one moment and the next, stuck like a fly within amber.

It seemed to fill up all of Jonathan in the space it took for his heart to beat. He felt wicked enough in this hour of dusk that a fraction of him desired to be kept just like this, with another ruling his wits. He found himself unable to fight when that mentality struck. His humanity shivered and pulsed, yet was unable to tear free.

This was not a transference, but a suppression. He would not be left to fret inside a coffin, but left to wonder about his actions in the darkness of his mind, quiet and afraid.

There was no mercy, only a grand purpose at hand. Count Dracula would act through him. He would see about dismissing a player from the board. Before he was fully transformed into a jackal, Jonathan could only be his pawn. The Count must topple the knight, and win his children. He could not slip from the noose that he felt tightening so surely around his throat.

Across from him, Quincey had just finished his pie. He was unfolding a newspaper when he spotted the solicitor’s papers were no longer being turned. Jonathan had grown too still for his liking, and if it weren’t Ilona pulling a fast one no matter Jonathan’s words, it had to be that other one. Then, he spotted the cold, calculating smile of a predator upon Jonathan’s lips, and knew trouble was definitely brewing.

The smile upon Jonathan’s face faded as the Count locked eyes with Quincey. The Count slyly took in the cowboy, and silently chided the solicitor for putting faith in these mortals for aid and hope. He raised Jonathan’s brow, as if he thought there was nothing to fear, and shuffled through the papers as he had once seen the man do, before setting them aside.

The Count was pleased to have won before Jonathan could do something so ignoble as draw undue attention to his activities. He presumed he would have run hysterically through the cars to seek help; perhaps swooning in front of Van Helsing with a stammered recounting of events.

He rose with the grace of his many centuries, before he recalled that would give him away. He was inhabiting a mortal man at present, though numerous changes were occurring if he looked upon them. Jonathan was easy to mimic, given how long they had fraternised within his castle; he had perfected his English with an Essex solicitor, after all. He knew his regional intonations and mannerisms.

He glanced at a nearby table, and located the perfect weapon with which he should act. One of the servants upon this train had taken a break; they had finished a meal, and returned to the kitchens. The silverware used to slice and cut through a gloriously rare steak was not yet taken away for washing. The blade of the knife was sharp; gleaming beneath the gravy; perfect for his intentions. One had only to wipe clean the refuse.

As casually as possible, he inclined his head to Quincey. “I have found all that I wanted to find within these pages; I have other matters to attend to, you see,” he said as he spread Jonathan’s fingers upon the table, and gave him a fleeting smile that he believed could induce a favourable outcome with this man.

“I’m sure you do,” Quincey warily replied, even as he rose with him. The last time he was in a room with this thing was not in the Harkers’ bedroom, but when he was briefly tracked back to Carfax. Nobody was strong enough to net him; nobody could reach him before he fled. Before they were stifled, Quincey had spotted those panther-like movements in Jonathan’s body. There was the same lion-like disdain, ill concealed in his face.

Jonathan had a whole other aura about him now as he strolled away; to Quincey, this was more a predator than a normal man struggling loose from them. He would bet all his cash on what had happened, and what was most likely going to happen. He tried to match the movements with caution, as he leaned over the next table.

The Count smirked, and wrapped Jonathan’s fingers around the knife. Of course this man would follow; he mockingly gave him a half bow, though never took his eyes from the American’s face. His smile purposely displayed Jonathan’s fangs, though they were still not ready for their true purpose. “You need not follow me, Mr. Morris,” he advised in a clipped tone. As he spoke, he sprang into action.

Quincey leapt out of the way, just in time to avoid a slash tearing itself down his arm. The blade only ripped through his coat, to his relief; it was not a mortal wound that could leave him bleeding to death. A little deeper, and it could have done just that. He moved to grab Jonathan’s arm, but was shoved back against a wall; nearby dishes crashed to the floor as he grasped a tablecloth to catch himself. The expression in those eyes he had once deemed kind could, at present, be described as utterly inhuman.

The Count strode through the doors that would lead back to the compartments, before he turned. He put forth an unnatural strength to first prevent the doors from being opened, and then jammed the lock entirely. It was becoming a tiresome habit with mortal men to interfere, that he must resort to this. It brought to mind how he had been forced to ruin the locks of another door in his own home, thanks to Jonathan’s propensity to wander and lay down his head where he ought not to do so.

With that, he bounded swiftly away. It was unfortunate that his solicitor had gained himself a nanny who was wise; however, he was easily deterred by misfortune, for it would be impossible to reach him before he struck.

A quick perusal of Jonathan’s mind had led him to the understanding that all of the others were currently gathered around young Mina. Through Jonathan, he had already found the knowledge of Van Helsing’s sessions with the woman. He would strike them from the board, and take his fledglings home once they had tasted the remains.

‘ ** _Soon, you will have your first drink of blood, Jonathan. Then, you will be truly of my kind; you will feed when I wish it, and love me for it.’_** His creature relished the notion; the rest of the dear fool didn't. He found the right compartment easily enough; through Jonathan, he knew the halls as though he had always been here. He raised the knife, and trailed a finger down the handle of the door. A gentle knock would reveal Jonathan’s presence, but not the Count’s purpose.

“Come in,” Arthur called from within. His voice was quiet, so as to not disturb Van Helsing or Mina as they conferred following what sounded to him like a particularly baffling session.

The Count smiled, and knew he would be victorious once again. From behind him, there were muffled noises; he presumed it was merely someone seeing to his work. Many things happened all at once, though, as the Count stepped forward. As the door opened, from behind him there came a great commotion. He glanced back, as the sounds of shattering glass and splintering wood reached his ears.

A food cart had seemingly intentionally slammed against, and then careened through the now levelled door. Leaping out of the wreckage was one Quincey Morris, and his intentions were clear as he lifted his pistol. The occupants of the compartment were roused by the noise, but didn’t have time to do more than ascertain it had occurred before the chaos was upon them.

It became a mad dance of bodies, as Quincey used the force of his momentum to overpower the creature nesting inside his friend. The two whirled around in a blur of motion, with Quincey refusing to relinquish his grip. The Count grunted as Jonathan’s body was slammed into the wall. In that moment, pieces of broken glass still raining from the man’s shoulders, he presumed the Americans were not so fond of civility as the English.

“Quincey, what the devil are you doing?!” Seward shouted in disbelief. He fell silent at Jonathan’s expression. Perhaps his friend knew exactly what to do, if this was what they had feared. Had he fallen headlong into blood lust, and lost his wits?

“Take a gander. I put the cart before the horse,” Quincey muttered without looking away for even one second. He knew they were eyeing the damage. “Pushed it, rode it, used it as a battering ram since you _jammed the coupling hooks_ , and wedged it all to hell, you cunning bloodsucker.” He had Jonathan’s Count pressed against the wall face first. He managed to grasp the wrist at an angle that would surely hurt, even if it didn’t break. The Count snarled and weakly made to snap at him. Faced away, it did no good.

“Drop it,” he commanded, with a quick shake. His grip was sure to leave a mark, but it couldn’t be helped when lives were on the line. At last, the knife fell to the floor, both men panting from their exertions. There was near pandemonium in the hall, as a cook demanded restitution; one of the porters had joined the man in shaking his head in amazement. Wide-eyed, Arthur hurried out to salvage the night; he could be heard offering suitable incentives to forget that anything was amiss, before he slammed the door shut behind him.

Quincey kicked the knife further from them; he started in surprise as Jonathan managed to curl at an almost impossible angle beneath him. He fancied that the Count was as slippery as a newborn calf when he put his mind to it. He managed to keep a decent hold as Jonathan’s body squirmed until it faced him. All the while, there were little growls, which sounded as though he was doing battle with a den of wolves.

Jonathan’s eyes changed to a hideous gleaming red as the beast within sought to free itself. This, Quincey supposed, was what Jonathan had been getting at when he wrote about eyes of basilisk horror in his journal. He’d seen those eyes before, that night the Count was interrupted while putting his blood into them. They made him want to turn tail and scram, but this man was a friend. He was almost like a little brother that he was teaching to play rough. He loved the people here too much to lose them to a knife.

Quincey pressed the muzzle of his pistol against Jonathan’s temple, even as he pointedly ignored Mina’s gasp behind him. While he doubted she would understand, he hoped she might one day forgive him if he made her a widow. From the sounds of movement, he wagered that Jack and Van Helsing were springing into action, finally recovered from his having barged in on them, and assessing the situation. They’d fallen through the door in such a flailing of bodies.

A strange chuckle emerged from Jonathan, if it could be called that. It contained no amusement, only an indignant mockery at the flagrant attempt to stop him. A smirk formed, as his tone grew almost friendly; Quincey recognised it, since it had ended with a murder attempt in the dining car. “You would have your friend murdered by your own hand even before he joins me as an heir?” The Count mused, striking to the very heart of the matter.

The Count presumed it to be a bluff. They would surely refrain from harming him. He had watched them, through Jonathan; through Mina; through Renfield; through his bat ears, outside a window. He had studied their methods. These people would not carelessly squander a life.

Quincey gave him a hard smile. The safety clicked off ominously, as though to punctuate his resolve. “You bet I would, if it gets you outta him. Without a head, you can’t use him to further your own ends, can you?” The cold steel pressed harder. A hiss emerged from the man that reminded Quincey of that rattlesnake he had almost stepped on back home.

Seward sprang into motion and grabbed the arm that had once held the knife. He twisted it in a swift motion, pinning it to the wall again even as the fingers clawed at the wood, and sought anything that might be used as a weapon. Quincey nodded. It was good that Jack had that asylum experience. “Thanks, Jack,” he allowed. He wouldn’t take his eyes off this one. He reckoned there had been a sneaky move to tear out his throat, but wasn’t about to budge.

Van Helsing was desperate to end this accursed stand-off. He would not leave this man to fester with a beast housed in his body. He had gathered his luggage to him; he now threw open his doctor’s bag, replete with the accessories that suited a vampire hunter’s profession. He gave a cry of pleasure when he finally located what he sought at the bottom.  
  
He turned a stern countenance toward the possessed man, and made himself not shudder at the sounds of the hissing. He withdrew his little golden crucifix from his bag, and held it up to where the Count could easily see it. “You grinning devil! You may not have friend Jonathan, nor Madam Mina; not on this night, or any night to come! Begone, Count Dracula! Back to your box of earth, to be slain so soon!”

The Count caused Jonathan’s body to buck violently, in his revulsion. He tried to fling Seward and Quincey from him. He snarled, and snapped at the air. Seward forced all his strength against the man to keep him in place, as did Quincey.

When he saw that Jonathan was still not himself, Van Helsing pressed his lips together. The Count _might_ have planted seeds of doubt about the state of Jonathan’s soul. There was always the intrusive thought that if the fiend should find such an easy purchase it might be too late. However, he would not allow it to take root. He pushed the holy icon to the man’s forearm. The creature curled Jonathan’s fingers in pain; his eyes rolled back in their sockets in a frenzy until all that could be seen was white.

“I cast you out, in the name of the Holy Trinity! _Depart_ from this stolen form!” Van Helsing roared, even as he dared to wonder how long he must continue with this horrific spectacle. The smell of burning flesh sickened those present.

Mina covered her mouth in horror, while everything played out around her. Her body quivered; it was primed to help, but she knew there was no ability to do so. She turned away in sympathetic anguish. She couldn’t go to him; she mustn’t soothe him. This was not her Jonathan, and if she made a move she would only be assisting the Count in fulfilling his grim plan to spirit them away. The cry that emanated from Jonathan’s mouth was as unnatural as it was brief.

Jonathan’s body sagged, and grew eerily still, before his chest finally began to rise and fall. He was breathing well; the shock of what amounted to a branding iron against him had not killed him. As Quincey watched, Jonathan’s eyes gradually changed from raging hellfire, to a far more normal colouring of hazel.

As dazed as Jonathan was, Quincey thought he looked a bit like a ranch hand that had been kicked in the head by a wild horse. He aided him in getting himself seated on the bench. He was glad that Van Helsing hadn’t picked the man’s face for that searing; it would have been difficult to explain to any strangers to their cause. “You back with us now? Everything still in that head of yours?” He probed with great care.

Jonathan shook his head, taking a few seconds longer than normal to register what he meant. His hands were shaking in reaction from an assault upon his person, which he could only dimly recall. It had harmed him through his shirtsleeves. The pain had pierced that outer darkness, wherever his mind had been stored while another stepped out in his form.

“What? Oh—oh, yes. Oh, God,” he managed. He was appalled, even as another wave of pain inundated his senses. Gradually, he found that it was beginning to subside. Seward drew back, even as a wary Van Helsing leaned against a nearby seat.

Jonathan sighed wearily as he began to recover. His head drooped low for a moment, when he felt he might pass out. He leaned back to rest his head against the wall. He recalled Mina’s valid excuse for parting his company earlier, and recalled the hour had been nigh about then; he sought to steady the whirling of everything about him with steady breaths. Finally, eyes open once more, he spoke.

“You were trying to find a glimmer of information right as I was possessed, weren’t you?” Yes, the Count would have still been ensconced in his box of earth, but evidently still able to become quite active!

“Yes,” Mina remarked warily as she checked his arm for permanent damage. As ghastly as it was, it was only a surface burn. She furtively checked his eyes as well, and saw no signs of their tormentor’s mind still inhabiting him. Nor did she sense anything of Ilona. Only then did she relax; she saw an understanding on his face. She squeezed his shoulder, allowing him to move it again.

“Usually, it is the sound of lapping water that I detect within the mesmeric trance. It could ordinarily be men seeing to the safety of the vessel, and moving the mast about, if he desired to change the course of the wind…but this occasion was _different_.” She glanced at Van Helsing, letting him determine what he felt best for her to reveal. “How did he gain entrance?”

Jonathan was fully focused on her; he wanted to explain himself. “I—I read a portion of Jack’s transcript.” He turned wide eyes to Seward. “I read of how Renfield...lapped up your blood.” He swallowed with a shudder, as desire roiled within him. He beat it back. “And...and the Count felt that I must do the same to make the changes irreversible within me. Oh, God,” he moaned. “He took advantage of my weakness.”

The solicitor then took in the man that had done so much to prevent him from being used to harm his loved ones. He didn’t quite know what to say for a long moment. “Thank you,” he sighed to Quincey; he reached over to clasp his forearm. He owed him his soul. The American patted him on the back, though not hard enough that it would jar him in any capacity. “Go on,” he encouraged Van Helsing, for he was curious about how things were different in their task.

Van Helsing had hoped they would go unnoticed until their prey was within their grasp, and they were upon the mountains. He took in the man’s canine teeth in accordance with his regular check-up; he saw they were sharper than even earlier in the day if it were possible, and sighed. “We gained a swirling miasma of confusion so great, for it was heard by _two_ sets of ears before funneling into our Madam Mina.”

It was best to lay all of his cards upon the table, rather than hold it close to the vest in this setting. What more harm could be done? “There was the sea, and there was the rumbling of a train. There was the smell of sweaty men, and leak of ocean spray, and there was an overlay, blurring into it all from the words so fumbled. There was yet the smell of a kitchen, and the sight of... _apple pie_. Our foe does not eat in the way we would, so this is wrong, my mind cry! Whose pie be this?!”

“He knew, because _I_ knew,” Jonathan murmured, as he ran his fingers through his hair. “The pie was Quincey’s, of course. He found it scrumptious.” He didn’t want to think about what had just happened, but there was no avoiding it. “He knew, because while I should hate him, a growing piece of me—a part that isn’t me at all, but _is_ at the same time—is subservient to him. It would and shall gladly follow his orders to submit to his will; to Ilona’s, though not so much as the evil _his_ blood has caused.”

He truly feared that if he saw Ilona in person, he would lose himself. He dreaded the desire she would stir. Jonathan tried to put particular impressions into words. “He suspected what Mina was doing with you, so he bid me to let him come in, and I—I just couldn’t close the door through which we are connected.”

Van Helsing shrugged, and waved an arm. They were not defeated, they just required different methods. Still, they knew all the ports, and all the places they must visit to stock up on supplies. They knew of his followers, and Arthur had greased so many palms to keep them but a few steps behind. “Thus a guarantee this way to follow is barred. He strikes out with the brain, cunning and vicious. We still know his purpose; this lashing smarts us, but does not drive us from our intent!”

This encounter made Van Helsing recognise that, perhaps, Jonathan was too changed. He had been used badly for longer than Madam Mina; his mind was an open book to the king of the vampires, and at least one offspring; perhaps more than Mina's. And yet, there was still something of the inquisitive man hanging upon his every word. Mina was gallantly seeking her safety, as well as his. It worried him, for she may be made to suffer badly as she tried to save a husband that was almost entirely lost somewhere down the line.

“We have your senses _and_ his, at war and duelling, for he was in two places at once, across from one being fed and nurtured! Your mind gave up the ghost, and became one with him there, yes? In the car for us to declare famine to vamoose, as Quincey should say?” Van Helsing was picking up pieces of slang, but knew not where to put them all.

“Yes,” Jonathan softly confirmed. “It was that very thing.”

“Were you transferred in the same manner as when _she_ struck?” Mina probed, voice filled with dread. She hoped it had not been like Ilona. She knew how it had affected him, in the aftermath of that. Perhaps it still did, from the look she sometimes found in his eyes when he woke with a sudden cry of mortal terror.

“No,” Jonathan quickly assured her. If it had been that again, he felt his mind would have come unglued. “It was most assuredly both of us in there, within my body. I was filled up and suppressed by his demonic essence, or whatever you desire to term it. I have a sense of what he saw from inside me, in the way that he saw it. In the manner that one can visibly _see_ the blood pumping in living bodies, where one is the warmest. He could see the life in a person, and how much is left.”

It was amazing, and impossible to explain unless one experienced it. It was terrifying, and he hoped Mina never had to experience such a sensation. “At that instant, I, myself, was...floating in an empty space, a void if I must term it something. I felt the movements of my physical form; I could hear words as if from a great distance. The only reality for me was if he turned his attention to me...until he was exorcised.”

He moved to stand again. He wrapped his arms around Mina as she stepped closer to him; he was careful not to have her brush against the painful forearm. He looked down at her, smiling softly. He held her hands, accepting they both needed this; it was the best way to prove to himself as well as her that he was not being dragged from her again. He never wanted to have that happen again, but so many things were out of their hands.

Jonathan returned to his explanation, though he had his reservations about particular admissions. He glanced down at the knife, almost forgotten on the floor; he recalled the tactile sensation of it in his hand, but little else. “Once, I had a flash; once, I was truly awake beneath the murk. All was icy. Curls of an inky darkness crept over my face, constantly changing like a living flame. A part of me...it welcomed the wicked touch and wanted more, for at least it was something after so much _nothing_.”

Quincey listened to every word, for he had wondered if Jonathan had been able to call out for help in a situation like that. He bent down and retrieved the knife; maybe he could sneak it back in without getting a tongue lashing from the staff. Or maybe he could just keep it for himself, and favour it as a memento. “Sounds like you were suffocated completely.” He lifted his hand and whirled to Van Helsing as he recalled something else.

“He _did_ have an Ilona attack for a few seconds, but no switchin’! She was really peeved as all get out that the Count’s blood wouldn’t allow for that kinda thing for her. She shouted in his head, and left after that tantrum.” In the commotion, he had almost forgotten that brief clashing of minds, and how strangely Jonathan had just gone with the flow and been fine after an apparent scream through his brain.

“We...feel _closer_ than we did. I can’t explain it. However, I suspect it was one last swipe before he drove her away for good,” Jonathan allowed. He was almost dismissive of the topic. The Count was the greater threat; he was the one they must focus upon. The majority of his ire was directed at him, at least. He felt like he could understand the three of the castle; he could relate to their conundrum. He just refused to look at that alteration in his psyche too closely.

There were very subtle changes coming to the forefront. When he moved closer to Mina, he sucked in a breath; yes, this was but a reflection of one of those, he ruefully presumed. He had briefly pressed the wounded place against her. He wasn’t sure how to take care of such a burn, when it was of an unnatural origin. The mark upon his palm was also in a strange way, though he had taken care to wear gloves as often as possible.

As they began to move about again, the broken glass crunched beneath Quincey’s boots. He glanced down at the pieces, knowing how dangerous it would be if it was crushed into the carpet. He shoved the largest of it away from both the threshold and Mina’s side, so that she might walk without incident.

As Mina let go of Jonathan’s uninjured arm, she rose on tiptoes to whisper in Quincey’s ear. “See that he is mended as best as you can. And thank you so much for what you did here tonight; thank you for all the ways you have been a boon.” With that, she quickly embraced him. She knew how close to damnation they were. They were lucky to have a friend that could briefly quell the tide.

Quincey grinned, glad that she was happy and as well as could be expected. He would take care of her husband as best as he could. So long as no further possessions happened, and he wasn’t stabbed or maimed, he felt that the whole thing should go smoothly. “Ah, little girl, it’s a pleasure to mummify your boy with bandages!”

Jonathan shook his head with amusement at the very idea of such a thing. He was in Quincey’s debt, both for his performance here to guard everyone from harm, as well as for pulling him out of his head, and keeping him honest about what could be influencing him in minor ways. “Perhaps not so many as that, unless someone feels it necessary to pour on holy water,” he mocked himself with a wan smile. The very idea of such at this juncture was a necessary evil.

As Quincey drew him out into the hallway, Jonathan’s eyes widened a bit as he took in the damage not too far from them. He had not been himself, of course, and so the memory wasn’t rendered with any certain clarity. However, a fraction of a glimpse of the Count’s surprise at Quincey’s reappearance had pierced his place of concealment. There was wood being swept; glass littered the carpet all the way to the compartment he shared with Mina.

The wall upon which the cart had struck with such force was left dented. All of this was caused by Quincey to save his friends; to spare him from the knowledge that he had committed a grotesque deed. The extent of it was enough to render him speechless for a long moment.

Jonathan covered his mouth in quiet awe, before he saw the mirth in Quincey’s eyes. “Well done, Mr. Morris,” he quietly smiled. He felt like an errant schoolboy waiting for the ire of the headmaster to come down upon his head. It was enervating. The expression faded as he touched the American’s sleeve, now ragged. It hung in a jagged line, obviously caused by his activities while he was not himself. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Quincey assured him. He then noted Arthur approaching with a steely expression. His friend bore a broom and basket in one hand; a dust pan was in the other. “Let’s skedaddle,” he advised Jonathan, waving the man into the next room. He knew when it was best to get out of the way, and let others deal with the fallout.

This was one such time. He was pleased that Jonathan only ducked his head low and obeyed. He’d noticed it was a bad time to make conversation with Arthur, too.

“How much would it have cost him to correct?” Jonathan asked, feeling no small amount of dread in his heart. He didn’t like to cause a scene, and didn’t want this to be an affront between them. He did not desire to leave Holmwood in debt. He suspected the cost could be more than he saw in a month with the firm.

“Enough, but Art can afford it,” Quincey assured him with a fond chuckle. “He doesn’t hold a grudge, so don’t you fret. Tell me, now, what _is_ a basilisk?” He asked as the door swung shut behind them. He would be hard pressed for a better time to ask and knew Jonathan was a smart little fellow.

Jonathan gave him a tiny smile for the distraction. Ah, yes, that had been the descriptor when he had failed to slay the Count with a shovel. “It is a monster of legend that kills with a single look.” He supposed the cause was its monstrous visage alone. “That, or one becomes instantly frozen, so that it might feast upon you. _I_ became the basilisk horror, then.” He didn’t want to be that. He didn’t want to remember how it felt to have the Count inside him; he didn’t want to fixate on the feelings it stirred. He didn’t want to frighten or hurt anyone.

Quincey shrugged as he pulled out the medical supplies. “Nope. The Count was. That wasn’t you...now get me that arm up and ready.” He saw it pretty much already was, for Jonathan had taken off his jacket, and was leaning closer to him. He also noticed that Jonathan just wouldn’t look at the cross burn at all, not even while he was patching it up. “Changed enough that you just can’t bear the sight of it, huh?” He said it as nonchalantly as he could, presuming that might draw truth out of the man.

Jonathan seemed to give that his due consideration. He winced once as Quincey touched a sensitive spot of the burn, though didn’t cry out. “I have changed enough that a growing piece is rather thirsty,” he confessed. He had already spoken of the passage that made him desire the same fare as Renfield had once tasted; he had already explained the way into his mind.

Quincey nodded, and sought to lighten the mood. “Not thinking of killing _me_ , are ya? No thoughts whirling around and around in there, left behind either by him, or by what’s getting you all riled up?” He actually smiled as he said it, though suspected the answer would be yes. “Whatever you say won’t be leaving this room.”

Jonathan smiled in response, though it was rather grim. He didn’t seem happy as he spoke. “Only sometimes, but I know that _I_ am not the one that is desiring to get you alone, at the end of the last car,” Jonathan could only manage to divulge so much, and that contained a great deal of shame. He felt like the images flashing through his mind would only intensify now that the dear man had stopped him from being forced to commit a violent act.

Quincey thought of the method the Count had employed, and wondered if it would be the same. He sighed with an air of long suffering grief, though it was more for show. “Let me guess. You would stab me, too, wouldn’t you?” How many slashings would he be forced to evade?

Jonathan shook his head with a dismayed smile; Quincey was so cheerful about it that he found himself confessing to whatever horror he must. Did he draw everyone out in this manner? “The Count desired such, as I recall. Not I,” he softly denied. No, that would be too quick, and too obvious.

With reluctance, he told him. “A simple shove as we passed over a bridge.” This was such an uncomfortable thought to even have. The thing he was becoming relished the painting of the scene, but he restrained himself. “I haven’t a spade or a garrote, you see,” he kindly noted.

He touched the man’s wrist, for this was a warning he must give him. “Perchance, Quincey, do not venture forth into that location for a cigar, when the smoking car would do just as well,” he advised as kindly as one could when the topic broached was murder. He glanced at his hands, and recalled another method that would soon be at his disposal. “My nails could have drawn a taste; my first sample, before they are clawed.”

And wasn’t that just making Quincey feel uncomfortable in Jonathan’s presence? Maybe just a smidgen, if he were honest with himself. However, it was his experience that it was best to get it all out in the open, so you knew where everybody was standing. He appreciated the warning, as nervously as it was given. The solicitor was always so quiet that he trusted he’d be told before the poor guy exploded with all that pent up emotion. The English were so strange like that.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he said as he put supplies away. He checked his wrapping style once more, to see if anything was getting pinched. “Are you better off _with_ Mina, than you are alone?” Would they ever strike each other? Somehow, he couldn’t see that ever happening. Not as living, breathing humans, and not as undead creatures.

Jonathan’s smile was soft in reply, as Quincey fixed the bindings. “Always. Neither of us will harm the other.” His expression changed to curious, yet dreading the inevitable. “You are certain that you won’t tell Van Helsing what I have divulged? I do not believe I am all that subtle when another plays a tune through my soul, but I am a danger to everyone.”

Quincey waved a hand, dismissing the very thought. “I suppose he can guess all of your murderous thoughts, especially when they’re the sort you can’t lay a claim to ever having before this. You can’t shock him with that.” He was the type to know already, especially in light of what had just occurred. “Now get up, and let me see that arm in motion. I want to see if I’ve made you lose circulation before I shove you out the door!”

Carefully, Jonathan moved his arm around in every direction, before he finally nodded. The results were successful. Nothing pulled or tugged where it should not, and the pressure against the wound was not too dire. “You have done well, Mr. Morris. Perhaps you missed your calling, and should become a doctor, too?”

Even if it rebuffed his suggestion, Jonathan was still strangely bolstered by the astonished laughter from Quincey's quarter.  
\--

Van Helsing listened to the retreating footsteps of Quincey and Jonathan. Friend John had just parted their company to attend to other matters in the upheaval. Arthur had briefly left to obtain such items as would clean the mess up following enabling them to stay on the train without further comment from those employed here. He shouldn’t be much longer. 

There was a quiet knock upon the door which signified that Arthur had returned. The knock had briefly caused him to tense, as he recalled how the Count had gained entrance. From a casual glance his way, Mina felt the same; each tried to send the other a smile of strength, though neither believed it. 

As Arthur entered, arms full, Mina reached out to him. She desired to relieve him of some of his burden. “Allow me to be of assistance,” she quietly offered.

Van Helsing would hear none of it. “No, no, allow us, Madam Mina,” he said as cheerfully as he could. It was a brittle façade at best. “You clean well, yes, but this! When it is caused thus, and with such violent edges...we have to agree it is no longer the realm of woman’s work. It is for strong men, hale and hearty, to risk life and limb.” He didn’t want to torment the dear lady with the sight of blood, should one of them get cut. 

Arthur laughed softly as he used the small broom; Van Helsing held the pan for him. “This is a strong man’s work; to hold the tools?” He teased. Even as Van Helsing nodded in humour, Arthur anticipated her next argument. He deftly handed it to her. She was strong enough emotionally. She was just as suited as he was to menial labour.

"Thank you, Arthur,” Mina smiled, eyes gleaming with warmth. The near brush with such a gruesome potential did little to settle her nerves. Perhaps assisting in the aftermath of what ought to have been her forced becoming on this night should act to draw her away from the lurid yet tantalising imaginings that were currently germinating in her darkening soul.

Mina smoothly sank to the floor in a crouch, just away from the worst of the mess. She arranged her skirts, and went to work on her portion of the room. “It is the least I can do, for I am half of his reason for manifesting in this diabolical chicanery; this unwelcome and unwholesome performance should never occur again,” she intoned as casually as possible.

When she glanced again at Van Helsing, she paused. Once he knelt alongside her, she gently touched his arm. “You are just as unsettled as I am,” she observed. “Particularly as regards Jonathan.”

The two of them glanced at Arthur, who nodded. He took no offence. He understood when he was meant to keep himself busy elsewhere. “I’ll go see if Jack or Quincey require my presence.” Quincey may need a few minutes more, but Jack should be lost in his own world by now. He lifted the partially filled can, with so many shards of glass and put down another. “I will dispose of this in another car.”

Mina patted his cheek. It was amazing he was as kind as he was, in light of his turmoil. He was such a friend. “Again, I thank you.” Once Arthur was gone, she stated what was on her mind. “I find myself thankful that he was able to obtain so much of the seating. The Count may have taken hostages or worse if blocked by a crushing throng of humanity.”

“Pale faces all in a row, like sheep in a butcher’s. Our foe proclaimed thus as we gave chase through his dilapidated hiding place,” Van Helsing concurred. The methods by which he struck were astounding. The Vampire King cared only for blood and for his perceived kin. The child-brain expanded in unseen ways. “There is an aspect that rises up within friend Jonathan, of which we must speak.” He felt she desired to know what was coming. He had, after all, obtained permission from Arthur before he put Lucy to rest.

It was awkward to broach the topic of that which wanted to ride her husband’s body into infamy and tyranny with the woman that loved him most in all the world. It was a tragedy that he must utter the words aloud. He was not a monster, but he felt like she would view him as one. She might very well hate him for this, but with such a man’s brain within her, and such a heart working in tandem, surely she could view it as he did!

“I presumed you might need to speak of matters such as this,” Mina sighed. The very topic of him coming to harm was horrid, but had to be addressed. However, her stomach roiled as she felt that more than that would be discussed in this dark hour.

“He grows worse at a faster pace, Madam Mina. He sinks into a pit not of his digging two times faster. He bled and tasted earlier, and sickens worse,” Van Helsing moaned. He gently took away her pan and sat it on the floor. He held her hands, an entreaty evident beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Do not hate an old man for this. Mr. Morris had a similar mindset, as brashly displayed as it was.” The gun to the temple was quite stark!

He drew her to her feet and led her to sit on the cushioned bench. “I want to gain your permission to give Jonathan his peace. Never hands such as yours touch the wood, but mine!” He saw the look in her eyes; a flicker there that viewed him as a putrescence, and would fight to the death to stay his hand. “No, not tonight. If he goes down faster, our first night in Varna could be his passage into eternity. He falls to wicked ways so awful! The teeth change, and be sharper still!”

Van Helsing shook his head before she could argue that she was changing as well. He put his hands on her cheeks, and peered into her eyes with great concern. He tried not to let his own drift up to the mark that declared her touched by the devil. “Dear Madam Mina, I know you have taken on particular aspects, but you have a long way before such is cast onto you. He has suffered the longest, yes, and that is why we reach this crossroad so narrow.”

Mina almost demanded that he leave at once. She felt he would factor that outrage into the list of increasing frailties that her situation was causing. Inwardly, she seethed; the extent of her ire should have left her reeling. Instead, it provided her with strength. Outwardly, she pulled away from his touch and nodded with a solemnity that should never have stirred within her. “You shall _not_ have the permission you desire, Abraham.” She swallowed, and lifted her chin to face this head on.

"Jonathan wasn't made for subterfuge," she informed him after taking a long moment to steady herself. She was the woman she must be in the face of such ideas. "His face is easily read, and that is your boon. You'll see it when another uses him; you'll know when he is well, or curious, or terrified. If he slips, it is apparent in his eyes! You have already seen his inquisitive nature. You know the goodness that would be squandered, just as you’ve seen him used by that devil!"

She extracted her hand from his and pondered her next words. “Do you believe that he alone has been tempted? Yes, there are my silences, but...there has been more. I might have become a subtler murderess, were I weaker,” she revealed with great care. It frightened her to confess so much to him. “The Count provokes violence. His disease renders one open to suggestions of such a calibre. There are ways to make it resemble a natural passing. I...I don’t know if Jack would fall for them, but they were considered.”

Van Helsing was sympathetic, as well as unnerved. His hand touched her back; he was pleased that she was not quivering in utter terror, yet greatly concerned for the state of her soul. “He has whispered to you? Or that which grows within does?” His curiosity was not so great that he would risk her damnation. 

“It could be him, or both. It is difficult to ascertain,” she noted with a frustrated sigh. Jonathan would understand what she meant. She found she must disclose the extent to which she had pondered such sordid matters. “The hemlock in the tea. The hat pin in the base of the neck, to provide quick and easy access to the last requirement for my total transformation. The last made me feel as though he were beside me offering his tutelage.”

She shook her head; glancing down, she saw that her hands were shaking. She forced them to stop. “I have done _none_ of these things.” Her research had suggested that, perhaps, the Count wanted to harness the beast, and make her lose her soul before she was even dead. Tonight’s events made her suspect a brush with possession had been narrowly averted for her, too. “I have resisted, and so has Jonathan. At the very least, he does when given a say in the matter.” 

Van Helsing chuckled helplessly and shook his head. King Laugh was not returning to him, even as beset on all sides as they were. He patted her hand when she allowed it. “Thank you for the trust to confide in me. I see the cruel side to my thought, and beg your heart so good to shoo it away as you would a fly.” Perhaps not a fly endangered within Mr. Renfield's cell, but one that flitted through nature unencumbered until it died either in a natural way, or beneath the newspaper.

“It was not so innocuous as that,” Mina replied, once she felt emboldened by his candour. “You will not try to end his life before his time has come?” She probed, feeling she was on shaky ground. When he shook his head, she sighed. While she had won this time, a jagged piece of her soul itched and crept further into the shadows. It was the oddest sensation.

“Not while he lives,” Van Helsing corrected. There had been an error in communication. If the young man died and became one of the undead, perhaps they could chain his coffin and keep him in there with holy artifacts. He hoped they could combine their wills and both keep Jonathan in check and alive. It was difficult to plan with a loved one so close to a change of her own. “Yes, the benignity was wobbly.”

She glanced at the door. She must make further preparations, just in case. Just because Jonathan would not be slain while he still lived, did not mean he would continue without harm. She would speak to Arthur when he was alone. It appalled her to believe that she felt he was the weakest sheep within a flock, and not merely a good man. So far, though, the former had not eclipsed the latter in her heart. 

She knew she wouldn’t hurt him. She would only seek to convince him. She had stated that Jonathan was ill-suited for subterfuge. It appeared that as she changed, she was gaining such a calling. She was falling into the position of manipulator, whereas she should ordinarily wish to be open with all those she loved. It was for a noble cause she told herself.

Mina glanced around. “Between us, we have certainly made headway,” she pleasantly noted. It was an excuse to change the topic. She meant in the manner of cleaning the compartment, while he must accept it at face value by the hope she saw in his eyes. The airing of grievances evidently lifted his heart.

“Go, and find your husband so dear,” he advised with good cheer. Still, it was tempered by the danger before them. “I will finish the last of the cleaning duty.” Here and there, one must find an errant piece. Perhaps any stragglers would be found in the daylight hours. As she rose, he noticed that she was preoccupied. His words troubled her as much as the nocturnal ways, but she was not flying off the handle. It was as good as one might expect. Doubly good in that she was not moving with a mysterious and otherworldly aura.

Mina suddenly felt that this man that she had once judged to be sweet, professorial, and wise was, at best, a fool. When her simmering anger, and odd notions eased a fraction, she knew that it was not her that desired to snap at him both physically and with words. 

She desired to peel such alien thoughts from her psyche. He was a decent man that had been hurt by the thought of their pain. “Of course,” Mina agreed. “I will bend Arthur’s ear as well, so that he is not surprised by the topic if it comes up again,” she smoothly continued. “I will then see how wounded Jonathan is.”

With that, Mina was gone from the compartment in a whirl of rustling fabric. She shivered, and couldn’t say if it was for the near miss when it came to the fallout of Jonathan’s possession, or herself altering further in both mind and body, and, it seemed, deed. “Damn him for making me feel this way!” She snarled. As she spoke, she wondered which man she meant. Count Dracula, or Abraham Van Helsing?

She didn’t know anymore. She prided herself on not letting out a startled cry when she felt a warm hand lay itself upon her shoulder. If she closed her eyes, she realised that she could pick out each man in a crowd just by the pattern of their beating heart. It was as Jonathan said. There was a web of life. She felt guilty, as she realised Arthur had heard her exclamation. She glanced over her shoulder with a smile, though the tremulous nature of it was evident in her eyes.

Arthur shook his head, before he waved in the direction of the door. “I’ve felt the same way before, after...yes. After. For several days, though Quincey and Jack were a comfort.” He didn’t want to say more than that, lest he spur on tears of mourning yet again. He knew she understood. It just wouldn’t do to collapse upon her again, when she had her own woe. “And yet, I am inclined to forgive him, because he could have left me an ignorant fool, and did not. He will be forever loved for his desire to protect.”

He offered her his arm. “Might I offer you a drink to unwind after such a nerve-wracking evening?” He queried. “Just until Quincey and Jonathan return to us, you understand. And then I’d best see about speaking with the porter again.”

Mina didn’t trust herself to speak at first. She hated to feel like a feral creature. She disliked this wild amalgamation of weepy and sinister; of a predator stalking the weak, even as she soothed troubled brows with a caress, or a good word. The duality was unseemly. “I should quite like that,” Mina confirmed. “I trust you are as observant as Quincey, to catalogue rising horrors?” She glanced at his throat when she felt as though something unnerved her further.

“I suppose I am.” Arthur then smiled, having latched on to the look. “So it works? I have a cross on my person; there will be no need for theatrics from _me_ ,” he assured her. He wasn’t one to smash down doors and wield a pistol at his nemesis. He was built for quieter things, although he could give chase quite well in a pinch. “Do you sense it? I’m keeping it out of sight for your continued good health.”

Mina inclined her head, and felt as though she must praise his foresight. “Your left breast pocket,” she confirmed as she took his right arm. “Another is wound around your fob watch chain, if you are not of a mind to reveal it.” His face was impressed. She had heard of how he had rescued the men after Jonathan had begged off a tour of Carfax.

He had implemented a dog whistle to summon his lovely terriers. If only such had been an option abroad, but it would have been too cumbersome to have so many hounds bounding wildly aboard a train. Lucy had once written of his passion for them. Arthur took her to a compartment further away from the damage of the dining car.

He shared this one with Quincey, when the man was not of a mind to spring to the rescue of others. Recalling her tastes before the Count had stained her with his blood, he poured her a glass of brandy. Out of respect, he managed to keep his eyes away from the mark on her brow.

Mina accepted it as she sat down, though found she barely sipped it. The flavour was there, but it was unappealing. She looked up when Arthur touched her arm; she could trust him, yes. She would go through with her plotting. Could she take that trust she saw in him to its bitter conclusion? She must test the waters, and if it left him unhappy, she could say it was what she was drinking that made her do this.

Arthur sat down his glass and recalled how she had held him as he unleashed all that pent up anguish about Lucy onto her shoulders. He would return the favour if he could. “What did he say? What blunder or bluster could cause such eyes of fire?” He had grown to love the man deeply, but would act nobly if the sin was grave enough against her.

Mina sat forward in her chair. “He wished for my permission to slay Jonathan in a day or two, for he must succumb first. Once we reach Varna. Once he dies.” She waved her hand, so that the dear fellow would not spring into action for the accidental slight. “He says he won’t, but I cannot be entirely certain of Jonathan’s future safety. I know his heart was in the right place.”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “What?! Just because of what the Count has done tonight?” As Mina revealed the privacy of the conversation, Arthur was wary. He grew ever more worried the more he heard. He didn’t want her to ever be touched. There had to still be hope. He hoped the same could be said for Jonathan.

It was this instant in which Mina felt that she should touch the most sensitive of nerves within the man. “If it comes to that, I feel that Jonathan and I must seek out a safer place. A place where we would not have a cause to fear something sharp being pressed against my chest or his as we slumber. We have spoken—before we argued our case for going, while we were certifiably ourselves, we made our own pact.”

She watched his face, and wondered if she could do this. “ _Would_ you tell Van Helsing anything that I reveal here? I only urge you to consider how we two only desire our own company for as long as we both should live. I suppose that would not even change with our deaths.”

Arthur was torn, and rose to pace in the confined quarters. He didn’t know how to react to this revelation. “I don’t know. I--” He paused as Mina quietly pulled a wrinkled slip of paper from her pocket; he hadn’t noticed the motion until she completed it. She smoothed it out with care, and an all too apparent love. When he reached out his hand, she allowed him to take it. There was a secrecy about everything she did, but he supposed she had her reasons.

He recognised Jonathan’s handwriting first, before he began to read. His flimsy resolve to ever move against her in any manner weakened, and then collapsed entirely at the vow. This was a loving couple that was dealing with a horrible conflict. He studied Mina’s face. She was steady, yet almost otherworldly at the same time. He passed it back, understanding that it wasn’t something meant to be kept out in the open. It was best left in the dark.

He cleared his throat, before he could become overcome by any emotion. “You are fortunate. You mustn’t lose that.” She mustn’t lose his life; she mustn’t lose his love.

Mina’s smile grew remote; her eyes were piercing and almost hypnotic as she distractedly swirled the contents of her glass. She sat it down and put the note back into her pocket. “You didn’t answer me, Arthur. Not truly.”

There was grief in his eyes. She hated to manipulate it, but something sang through her core. Was it a fraction of what power she might one day wield? She couldn’t say. Did she love the sultry feel of it, and wish to clasp it to her and keep its velvet warmth a secret forever? To her alarm, she did, though it didn’t last. She lay a chilled hand on his wrist. “Do you think of Lucy? I do.”

“I always do,” Arthur admitted. “Or I _did,_ until this latest bout of outrages for you and your husband.” He thought of Lucy’s final moments. He thought of the monstrosity as the wood entered her tender flesh; he thought of that horror, and the screams echoing off the walls of the mausoleum. He thought of Lucy, yet simultaneously desired to keep this couple safe from harm.

Mina grew more solemn. “Think of _her,_ then. If you two had married, and she did not achieve a true peace, a true death on what should have been your wedding day...if you had the chance to walk with her, would you have? If you understood her cause, and would not be injured by her needs.” Her voice was steady; her whisper was so enticing as she continued. “Would you have? I wonder. Only parted briefly, at the final breath. Together, as you reawaken. If you knew the future, could you have done it?”

“No,” he confirmed with a shaky sigh. “I could not have slain her. When she enthralled me in the graveyard, little pressure needed to be applied.” If not for Van Helsing, he should have fallen into her arms. Or, rather, allowed her to leap for his throat. He could see both sides, the romance and the demonic outrage.

He looked upward, and hoped he would not be damned for making the wrong choice in the here and now. Mina had returned to her seat; he knelt before her, and gently took her hand. He ignored the chill, for it was so common among her plight.

“You have my promise not to tell. You have my promise, and I will enlist Quincey to aid our cause,” he assured her. Her eyes gleamed with victory and an incredible wave of joy. They were so enthralling. He frowned as though to chastise her for that, before he turned away; he briefly touched his breast pocket, before he decided again that he would not hurt her. He supposed he should be fortunate there were no fangs in his throat, and that her eyes were not a vibrant red.

“I’m sorry,” Mina whispered in a halting manner. She touched his shoulder in consolation; she stroked his cheek. She understood how badly this might have gone, as her humanity rose up and forced back the rising tide of what was against her very nature. She had endeavoured to sway his mind with her most private note. She hoped she had not lost a friend. “I think I behaved oddly, though nothing you just said could have ever been stated against your express wishes. It was not against your will.”

“I thought not, though it seems only doubt is swirling around us,” he sighed. He saw a demure terror in her stature despite the temerity, and leaned forward quickly. He embraced her as he would a sister. “I don’t hate you. You have no cause to think anything of the sort. You didn’t ask, but I saw it in your bearing. You are saving your husband, and yourself in the only way you could think of, and I admire that.” There were worse things she might have done than steer his mind with thoughts of his lost fiancee.

He gathered his thoughts. “Right. I will seek counsel from Quincey, and somehow convince him of this wild scheme in the same breath. In the event the time comes, we will spirit you both to safety and concoct a wild story as to how you perished.” If they transformed into vampires, it was that, or leave one maddened and furious that the other was dead.

She pressed his hand and kissed it with all the gratefulness she had within her. There was no ardour to be found, as it was a simple friendship that sang through her. “Thank you,” she said as she felt on the brink of crying. Arthur rubbed her back. “I will devise a signal for either of you; we may be separated in our travels, but one of you will be there.”

“I think it will be Quincey,” Arthur agreed. “I’ve managed to shock him on occasion. Perhaps this choice will do so, too.” They would need to be far from Jack and Van Helsing and Jonathan, just in case the man’s voice grew loud and could not be contained for his surprise. Arthur glanced at her again. “Get back to your husband while you can,” he advised. “Cherish him. Go on, before anyone suspects us.”

Mina raised a brow, even as she pondered propriety. “It was only a brandy, and there are no prying eyes onboard,” she chided with playful innocence. The smile melted from her face, for the words didn’t quite ring true. She rose to her feet and left the mostly untouched glass of brandy upon the table. She motioned for him to drink it if he liked.

“It was only brandy,” Arthur echoed with an equal weight. He opened the door for her, and gave a small bow. He was glad this woman was on their side, for her mind was truly a formidable thing to witness. 

He prayed it was never directed against them. Quietly, he toasted her as she parted the room. He slung the brandy back, for he required one himself.


	8. Chapter 8

It was the beginning of November. They had made it through a fraction of the Carpathian mountains at a quick canter. They were now exiting Bistritz, and sought the Borgo Pass.

Van Helsing and Quincey had been unable to entirely rouse the Harkers from their oppressive daytime slumber as it was. It was judged unsafe, in case either or both should fully transform, and feast upon a whole building of people during the night. Old accounts had spoken of such a possibility. Nor was it safe to intrude upon a family to beg for lodgings.

Having seen the state of Jonathan when they sought to renew their supplies, they received numerous gestures to ward off the evil eye. They overheard mutterings which insinuated that, by his appearance, Jonathan must certainly have made some sort of Faustian pact. The fellow had only briefly risen to stretch his legs, and raised a brow as his keen ears, too, caught this.

‘What balderdash,’ he had murmured to his wife as he returned to the conveyance. He would never have been careless enough to _sell_ his soul. If he hadn’t withdrawn from view and advised Mina not to depart, he suspected someone may have assaulted them. While he suffered from evident fangs and an increasing pallor, when questioned Quincey assured him that he didn’t look like a soulless beast just yet.

The roads grew increasingly rugged the closer they came to their destination. They had to take great care, or they would lose their way. The likelihood would be great that at least two of their number would never be heard from again.

Once, having grown lost, Mina had pegged the correct path. Then, sort of listening to something they could not hope to fathom, Jonathan had smiled with pleasure; he had murmured of other avenues around a portion of the path blocked by a minor landslide up ahead. Quincey thanked them, and then shared his aversion to the source of their knowledge with a look at Van Helsing.

For some time now, their lamps were all that pierced the darkness. Jonathan leaned closer, having spotted something further ahead that gave a particular zeal to his expression. They hit an even rougher patch not long after, even as snow began to swirl around. Jonathan tapped Mina, and glanced upward. He indicated that several bats were just faintly in view if one studied the sky. She frowned, and couldn’t ascertain if their eyes were red or not.

After a hushed debate, Van Helsing and Quincey agreed that it would be best for them if they halted until sunrise due to the weather, and set up camp. Jonathan gallantly took Mina’s hand; he assisted her in this latest departure from the contraption. The moon was frequently obscured by swirling clouds, but neither lost their footing; they could easily traverse the path in the gloom. Given the lateness of the hour, they felt alive.

Quincey turned to survey the area as the clouds parted. They were at the top of a great hill or summit. In the distance, he could just make out the castle, its imposing and jagged silhouette impressed upon the horizon. He moved to gather what they had close at hand on either side of the road, so that they could build a fire.

Jonathan approached and assisted with gathering firewood. It might have been less disturbing to have him see every little detail of things if it were at least daylight. However, it was still a boon. Mina was at his side, finding suitable things as well. The solicitor grew still as he returned with several branches broken from an ailing tree.

“Here, Quincey,” he entreated as a coil of excitement was stirred ever higher inside him. He waited for the man to relinquish him of his burden, before he turned around. Without looking, he reached out for Mina’s hand, and clasped it at once. There was a heady mix of sensual desire, and mounting fear that he felt simply must not be deserted from him. It was energising.

“Oh, Jonathan,” Mina breathed as she saw the expression on his face. His eyes were aglow with a joy that was almost unreal. “What is it?” It was not the Count casting out a lure for them to bite, or she would know it. She tugged Jonathan’s sleeve once, in a bid to halt him in his tracks.

“There is pleasure to be found. It is not too far ahead,” he informed her in a strange tone. Jonathan closed his eyes slowly, and listened not just with his ears, but with his mind. He felt them inside him.

There it was, in the distance for her now. Something sang through her blood, as well as his. There was a distant exhilaration; it was almost a crooning, as of a mother singing to its newborn child. It was a summoning of them from afar, to share in the bounty that they should bestow upon the newly created of their kind when their time arrived at last. Mina studied the treeline, and then, again, her husband.

Should they go? No. The time was not at hand for them. They must keep their wits about them, and not succumb. Her mind was free enough, for she had not tasted their blood, only that of the Count's. Gently, she reached out her hand, and drew his face down to hers. She kissed him for just long enough that his attention was returned to her; fear flitted through his face. “There you are again,” she said sadly. “We must stay.”

Mina pulled his hand, and drew him back to the men; she gently pressed him to sit upon a log. The unnatural portion of his mind was dominating him more. His eyes shone with a vibrancy that could easily be mistaken for a fever by the untrained mind. Jonathan shook his head, and denied the warm furs when they were offered.

“Must we?” Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut. Ilona was rapidly approaching, and he must submit to her. He must let her into him in every way. He paused, and brushed his fingers over his face with a shuddering breath. He had to steady himself, lest he grow overwrought before their might. They must know of the dedication that was swelling up within him. He paused, confused for but a moment, as he thought back to how this had once seemed terrifying and evil.

Mina’s hand pressing against his shoulder helped to steady him, before his eyes grew harder. “They’re coming,” he whispered in a breathy tone. If they just wandered off, it would be the better ending, would it not? “They desire their brother and sister, Mina. Can you not feel the pull in your blood? Do they not welcome you?”

Every speck of snow or bit of mist could contain them. The sound of laughter like tinkling glasses filled his mind; it was almost as though madness beckoned to him.

“You know I do,” Mina assured him with great care. She felt something curling in her soul again; it was like a strange communion of spirits came upon her, and pressed itself close to her heart. She _knew,_ though Jonathan likely felt all these impressions in a greater intensity than her. She managed to wrestle her mind free before it could be either tempted, or rent asunder.

Mina sadly stroked Jonathan’s face with the back of her hand. The crackling of the fire nearby was the only intrusion as she thought about her next move. She knew all those nights of horror he had endured must be a fraction of the pain they would inflict upon him if he went to them. It just could not be benign. She could not join him and frolic with them. She knew it would not be his desire as himself; not tonight. Not so soon as this, no. Not just yet. They needed more time.

Her eyes glinted with tears that she would not allow to fall. Something of her husband responded, and held her tight for a second. She took a breath to steady herself. Then, she raised her arm to attract the attention of Van Helsing and Quincey. “I believe those three will appear soon,” she warned them as they approached. “There are none safer in all the world than he and I. I fear that I cannot say the same for you.”

Even as she drew away, Jonathan felt himself floundering. He reached out and clasped her hands with an unexpected strength. “Shall we, Mina? Oh, shall we see to their comfort?” He desired to rush out with open arms and embrace them all, though the saner part of him was unabashedly terrified. “They don’t want to _hurt_ us. They only want to welcome us to the fold.”

Quincey slowly withdrew a pistol from his knapsack, and waited. Thanks to Arthur’s gentle and lengthy persuasion, he knew the plan. From a gentle shake of Mina’s head, he understood that aspect had been called off, and Jonathan’s mental state made it easy to see why. It was difficult to see beyond the fire he had built; the horses weren’t too far off, whinnying in distress even this close. Jonathan wasn’t the only indicator when something unnatural was near.

“Sisters,” Jonathan softly called out, against his true desires. He knew their connection would carry the call farther than his voice. It flowed both ways, and he already sensed all they felt for him. “Your devoted brother desires your presence. Your new sister may wish for a proper meeting.” He was eager for them to gather. He was desperate to see them once more.

He gasped and almost collapsed onto Mina when an odd sensation washed over him. He drew back with her safely in his arms, as Van Helsing passed them with a handful of Eucharist wafers. The man was crumbling them up and using what resulted to form a circle. He shook his head, daunted in his quest. All his instincts cried out that he could not pass through the sacred confinement. By the look in Mina’s eyes when she approached it, neither could she.

“We won’t be lettin’ the reunion get too cosy now,” Quincey noted when he guessed the plan. “You don’t want ‘em as you, even if the thing inside is convinced you do.” Jonathan bared his teeth in an odd rage, before it passed. The solicitor then shook his head, and appeared to be almost confused and mournful at their situation.

Quincey shifted away uneasily, grateful he had a weapon on him. He looked at the horses, just out of the circle; Van Helsing met his eyes, then, for he had just enough protection left. Quincey grinned at the man’s forethought. It would hold, so long as the incessant stamping of the hooves didn’t blow it away, or rub it clear. “Those damn bats won’t get another horse of mine,” he growled.

Mina shifted closer to Jonathan, in the hopes that she may be able to draw him back to himself. She put her palms upon his cheeks and studied his eyes. She feared that the harshness, and the distance was growing. On the other hand, it seemed like he was coming back to her the longer he saw her worry. His eyes went to the burn upon her brow, then, and softened.

Slowly, Jonathan leaned forward, and kissed Mina deeply. He felt such longing that it could not be contained; he wanted his wife, even when stirred by unnatural creatures. He loved her so much. Despite the snow melting in their hair, on this cold night he felt everything there was to feel. There was a power lurking just out of reach, if only he gave in. He was scared. “I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly. “I don’t think I’ll have it in me to stop myself.”

Mina held his hand tightly. She had a warning, and it would have to be enough. If he betrayed them, it would not be his fault. It would be what had sprouted and grown in the myriad tragedies. He would never look at her with such purity of heart again if he found a way out of this circle. She noted the mist; the moonlight; what looked like dust, hovering around the circle, hanging in the air. She saw Jonathan clench his eyes shut, and heard him sigh.

This was them, in the flesh as they fully reconstituted. She saw their eyes. She knew their purpose. They were present, and would have the ones they had come for. If they slaked their thirst and fully transformed them, then she just _knew_ that they would feast upon Quincey and Van Helsing. They would have no other choice, with nobody else around for miles. She was grief stricken, even before it happened.

‘ _ **Come to us, brother. Come to us, sister.’**_ She heard their voices in her head, and presumed it was the same with her husband. She glanced at him, and saw what was coming. She stroked one hand over Jonathan’s hands, and looked him in the eye. Quickly, before he knew what was happening, she ripped his gloves off of him; she flung them away from the circle; away from the women; away from them. Let them be covered by the snow and lost, if it saved him!

Jonathan was dismayed, but not for long as he intuited her leap of logic. He squeezed her hand with pride. “Thank you.” He had been about to wipe clean the barrier with his own two hands, for there would have been no pain if he was fast enough. He brushed his forearm, recalling the burn of the crucifix; it could burn through cloth; it would just as easily have burned through his gloves. He would not have truly cared, if it was yet another scald added atop the old.

Jonathan stared into space as foreign thoughts infiltrated him. Ilona’s voice was submerging his mind. His thoughts became hers. She was goading him on until his views were only hers; soothing all fears; tamping down his morality, and his seat of reason; his common sense, and his hope.

His suddenly cunning eyes glanced down, and his shaking hand hovered just above the line before he knew what he was doing. The blonde grabbed his wrist with inhuman speed, with a sultry grin, preparing to yank him out. The force was like a vice upon him, as his eyes widened in apprehension of what she had made him do. The fanged mouth spread wide in a grin. **_‘You are ours to keep, dear brother. Think not of them.’_ **

“Let me go, you devil,” Jonathan wailed as his finer instincts reasserted themselves. Quincey fired his gun into the air, and the woman jumped, before she emitted a tinkling laugh. Her grip was not relinquished; Jonathan was being pulled out of the circle, even as Quincey tried to hold onto his legs. Mina found herself hissing as though she had fully become one of them, in an effort to drive her back. She would not have her husband torn in half in fact as well as nature!

At last, with one hand, Van Helsing gently covered her eyes to block her view, and then lifted the crucifix to where the vampires could see it. Ilona’s grip upon Jonathan was shaken loose by the holiness. She snarled, and was then shoved backwards with an unnatural strength by Mina.

She would protect him until her dying breath, and, perhaps, beyond. Jonathan turned away from the women to hold onto Mina; he was shaking in reaction. Neither dared to look as the good doctor brandished his religious icon. “ _Adjuro te in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti._ Begone!” Van Helsing demanded.

Jonathan was shaken by the results, as the women snarled; slashed at nothing, and moved around the circle, glaring at them all in turn. Van Helsing decreed the Latin again and again. Quincey kept the pistol upon his lap, steel in his eyes as he observed their antics. They were trying to get in; they were battering at unseen defences. Not another victory would be claimed on this night.

They were unable to breach it, though still they gamely tried. Their screeches echoed through the night, and sounded more like demons; like animals, from time to time, as they snorted. Their red eyes blazed, and teeth gnashed at the air.

This would have surely become Jonathan’s true inheritance, though still there was a sultry air in quieter moments. Still, they tried to ply their wiles; their will; their unique form of love against him. Their horses neighed in terror one circle over, rearing up with all the hue and cry.

Still, they survived by maintaining a constant vigilance. They would not look into those eyes and be seduced in the same manner. When the night finally drew to a close, as they watched, the three women grew misty; blurry, as demonic flesh altered and became so much moonlight; so much shimmering dust. They disappeared before the coming dawn, as insubstantial as a dream.

Jonathan lay panting from the stress of almost being taken; of fighting for his life. Quincey pulled out rope from his pockets when all were certain it was not a trick. As Jonathan’s eyes remained affixed to their last known location with a mix of wonder and fright, both his wrists and ankles were tied together.

He wouldn’t be able to reach across the circle again, not without it being evident about his intent; not without floundering badly. He would be easier to stop. As he worked, Jonathan‘s eyes grew bright and inquisitive at the peculiarity of the man’s actions. He felt the knotting was almost too tight, though dared not give it a mention.

His bindings were superior to knots that he was able to tie himself, Jonathan judged once he had tested their strength. All too evidently, as the daylight grew, he was growing ever wearier. His tone was humbled when he spoke at last, though low and strained from an internal battle. “Whatever I might say or do to the contrary later, Mr. Morris, we thank you for your timely intervention, and all your culminated efforts. I would not be here without you.”

Mina’s mood was growing sedate now that the danger had passed and the sun was rising, yet she managed to exude thankfulness. Her husband had not yet been lost for a twisted notion of a familial connection. He spoke for both of them with his declaration. “You have our eternal gratitude.” Would that it didn’t come to their surviving through eternity, but the thought was true.

“No problem,” Quincey assured her. “I’m not letting you get dragged to your death before you’re even saved, Jonathan,” he was quick to express. “Nor you, Mina.” He would hate to see her behaving like those things. Right now, he was reluctant to even call them ladies after that display, though the shape was right for it.

As the light shone over them all, Jonathan and Mina settled down to sleep, still unable to leave the circle. Quincey gently put furs over them, to ward off the brunt of the cold. Who knew where Jonathan’s gloves may have ended up, with the snow that had fallen or been stirred up by those three?

Van Helsing patted his shoulder as he exited the circle with him. Their horses appeared well, though they were skittish and apprehensive. He was pleased that the circle had not been broken fully, for they would surely have been lost to the creatures’ ire. They had gone away empty handed. He patted the muzzle of the one he had named Sandor as that stallion was the most upset, before he began to lean into the wagon.

He was fascinated by their experience, yet just as resolved as he had been. From the depths of a bag, he withdrew a sugar cube and fed the filly called Magda; the two animals were bonded together, and always stayed close, even when Quincey once took a chance during a quiet hour, and left them unbridled. One surely would have perished without the other, he mused as he looked back at those still in the circle.

No matter their physical appeal, and their tranquilising seductions that brought so much heartache, he would pound his stakes through their hearts with his mallet himself. This gentleman and this lady so dear would not be taken to join them. They _would_ be freed of this ruination. This portion of Jonathan Harker’s curse _would_ be broken, before the greatest shackles of all were tossed aside.

He swore it would be so, even if he must somehow perish in the doing of the deed.  
\--

Jonathan’s eyes flew open, and the grogginess that saturated his senses in the daylight hours was not so intense. His attention was drawn to his state of health first; he felt his heart still beating, and was almost disappointed that he was not one of the undead yet. His attention was drawn to Mina next; she had enough furs for warmth, he was glad to see.

Then, an anger that was more in keeping with what he was becoming began to fill him. He found words flying dangerously as he opened his mouth. “The devil take you, Van Helsing,” he snarled.

The Dutchman seemed to know his mind, as he turned his way. “No. May God ride with us, and give a blessing to my stakes,” he calmly retorted. He knew what Jonathan was in communication with. He would not tell his movements, or plans, even if he may have intuited them. The devils would be taken from Jonathan’s soul one piece at a time. If he were truly himself, in the wake of last night, he would never have stated such.

“They are my **_sisters!"_** He declared as his palm struck the snow. It was an awkward movement, with the way the ropes were tied. He looked fearful as Mina revived; he didn’t mean to wake her. He leaned over; his forehead met hers as she briefly awakened from the noise. He kissed her nose, with an apology in his eyes. She soon went back to sleep; he understood the sensation well, for it tugged at him harshly.

“ _Our_ sisters,” he continued in a softer tone. “Do you know what it is for your very soul to curl in unbridled joy from a simple brush against your mind? You cannot. I am encouraged by their love; their unvarnished, beauteous attractions; their desires and mine are becoming one, as all of us are linked through _him_. I feel more than simply Ilona’s graceful fingers.” He found himself smiling with an unholy, yet placid glee. “Yes, they were harsh with us last night, but needs must. I would take you at his bidding or theirs soon enough, and I’m sure you already know that.”

Van Helsing was only further emboldened to free him. Words would not sway him from his task; they would, possibly, be retracted soon enough if he could but hammer through the wall they had built around his mind. “You are not yourself, friend Jonathan. Think of arguments previously, so many and so noble. I have read your true soul in that journal. I know of the heart so warm through conversations many.”

“Those arguments...they are rapidly dwindling,” Jonathan ground out. He blinked quickly, as he seemed to hear himself for the first time. What was he saying? What was he _implying_? Last night was a terror, wasn’t it? His mind wasn’t failing him? With great effort, the mortal man barely managed to fight back the whirlpool of evil that was growing ever stronger within him. It hurt the longer he tried to resist, but he found himself on top again.

Jonathan felt as though reparations must be made, but really. What could one do to make amends for trying to side with their sisters and not the man seeking to save him, along with his wife? Still, his aim was to clear the air, before this accursed sleep had to take him from the world again. Jonathan sighed, eyes filled with regret as Van Helsing passed the circle again.

His voice felt too loud in the silence when he did shatter it; behind him, he felt Quincey’s eyes fall upon him. “My conduct has been deplorable of late, sir. You have my apologies.” He should not have sought to leave the circle. He tried to rub his eyes free of sleep, but it was difficult when one’s hands were bound. It would merit further consideration, and awkward movements if he wanted to do anything else but lay there. Some aspect of shame was in Jonathan’s face when he looked over to him.

Jonathan had studied the rope from time to time, and tested its strength. He pondered gnawing on it, for those forming fangs ought to be good for _something_ before he started biting necks, but felt like Quincey would shoot him. Yes, it would be a truly ignoble demise for him should it come to that. Some aspect of shame was in Jonathan’s face when he looked over to him.

Van Helsing pondered the statement, and its veracity. Jonathan’s words did not appear to be an attempt to lull him into complacency, but after the events that had occurred, one never knew what was true. This clarity of purpose could change in an instant. “It was not your will,” he conceded. Still, he would take that memory of the man’s startled horror as the woman grabbed him to his grave. “But it is a piece of your so eternal soul for now, friend Jonathan.” He returned to readying the tools in the carriage.

Jonathan was protected, so long as he did not seek to scrub free the remnants of the Eucharist. Mr. Morris’ ingenuity and his presence as a silent, watchful sentinel prevented that from happening. He glanced at Van Helsing, shifting to get a bit more comfortable. "If you could but burn the castle down, before those lovely three, those beauteous princesses were awake, it would be a boon," he suggested in a solicitous tone.

Jonathan felt as though his heart would break for the very idea. So, too, did he note that he was calling them sister earlier; princess; lovely. It felt like it would be beneficial to go to them. His mind could no longer dub them devils of the pit, lest he judge himself or Mina the same way. He was so close to being one of them.

“They should know of this plan, friend Jonathan, for you concoct and direct its thought," Van Helsing retorted, not unkindly. "Remember the Count. Your dream should become the trap for me, as he warns them all." Still, it held merit if one pondered another method.

"Yes," Jonathan agreed. His suggestion would continue, even if it may just become a wistful dream for a man at the cusp of a newfound lineage. "But there are many tapestries, formerly so vibrant as they revealed battles of old. There is a multitude of drapery to be discovered, moth-eaten and inhabited by the spiders as they spin their webs." The hint had an odd underlying viciousness to it, and Jonathan was uncertain from where or who it originated.

As Van Helsing neared once more to accept a bit of food from Quincey, he saw again how prominent Jonathan's fangs were becoming. Or perhaps, like Lucy, it was merely the receding of gums to prepare the way. Either way, he did not like it; he did not reply to the man. He only silently prayed for his soul, and hoped he was not too late.

As he watched, he no longer needed to reply. Jonathan had managed to lay down, and cuddle closely to his suffering wife. Within moments, both were so deeply asleep that neither Quincey nor Van Helsing could awaken them. If danger approached, and Van Helsing were away, Quincey would be required to carry them both to safety.

“Good hunting," Quincey offered quietly as the wagon moved away from them.  
\--

Quincey was busy sharpening his Bowie knife, and checking for wolves. So far, none had dared to approach, although Jonathan had been creepily amused earlier when he’d again briefly awakened. That changing solicitor had noted how easily the Count commanded them. He hadn’t said if he could feel any activity on that front, though, but had gone back to sleep, quick as could be.

The cowboy didn’t much like idly sitting around and waiting. He hated wondering if the three women had seen fit to eat Van Helsing like that baby he’d read about. A low grunt reached his ears, and he turned to see the couple in the circle.

It was Jonathan making sounds in his sleep; he groaned, and it was soon followed by a quiet little gasp from the pile of furs that covered Mina’s head. Given how much she had slept through all the daylight hours, Quincey thought it was a miracle that that small noise woke Mina at all. “Jonathan?” She blearily asked as she pulled down the furs, even as Quincey neared.

Jonathan rolled over to stare at them. While his face was stern, he had tears in his eyes. Abruptly, he moved to face away. “He’s killing them,” he said in a monotone that concealed a fury not his own. The stony visage cracked along with his attempts to present a serene façade, as he continued to relay the course of events. “Our sisters are _dying_ ,” he proclaimed in a horrified tone. “Ilona feels it, and I feel it, and they know it.”

He could see it all, given their connection, though there was not an effort to transfer her consciousness into him, so that she might survive. She had tired herself last night; she had forgotten the hour. She couldn’t move, in her slumber; her eyes were open. The coffin lid had been pried off. Jonathan suspected all three had been, for he heard echoing sounds as something struck the floor.

He knew through Ilona that at least one other was deceased, for the scream had echoed within them both. Jonathan clenched his fists in the furs; he knew that covering his ears wouldn’t blot out the noises, but he did anyway.

“Try not to look,” Mina urged him. It couldn’t be good to be a witness. “Try not to listen to them; turn away, and cast them aside,” she whispered pleadingly into his ear. She pitied them. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder and quietly rocked him; his hands darted out and clutched hers, shaking with emotion. He shouldn’t be made to feel this; he shouldn’t have to know this.

It could only hinder his recovery once he was himself, if he was inside them with that last gasping scream. She could picture the remains so well, for Seward had been horribly candid about all the body went through in his phonographic account.

“How many are gone now, Jonathan?” Quincey softly asked. He wanted to be the calm in their storm, if he were able. He wanted to reach in the circle and help him focus, but didn’t dare. Given Jonathan’s state these past few weeks, the man could very well get used again and do something he would later regret.

Jonathan squirmed, as Ilona felt their sister’s essence depart; that dear sister was extinguished, though he sensed a relief pass through him as well. “Two.” He sat up, and put his tied hands in his lap. He couldn't do anything. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling her leave his mind like smoke dispersing before a breeze. There was nothing but blackness.

He felt a dim echo of the stake piercing her chest with little pain, before it was gone. The aim had been true. The only light glowing out there in the dark was the Count’s. “Three,” he hoarsely corrected; sorrow could be heard in his tone. “His work...it was swift with Ilona.”

Quincey knelt down, just out of reach. He waited for Jonathan to finally look him in the eyes. “So, that’s Ilona done for. We all knew her, of course. Do you want to tell me the names of the other two ladies? I always heard from the folks, it’s better to share your grief than wallow in it alone. It would be good to know who you see fit to mourn.”

It was the only thing he could think of to keep the man in check. They needed to scrape away that false layer, but he wasn’t the one to do it. Let the man come to his own conclusions, in his own time, if there was time.

Jonathan was almost suspicious, but knew there was no malice intended. “In order of oldest to youngest, they were Ilona. Snežana, who bit me. And Livana, who never got a taste on any occasion.” He closed his eyes, and reached out again. Somehow, lately, he knew exactly how to do that; he ceased with a grimace. “ _He_ felt their lives wink out, too. They were right; he _never_ loved them.” There had been no grief from that quarter, only satisfaction. They were just toys to him.

As the sorrow coursing through him rolled back for a moment, Jonathan felt an epiphany strike him. He looked at these patient people; his wife; his friend; and, of course, his other friends, somewhere out there in the wilderness. They had not discounted him; they had not deemed him pitiable. They had only allowed him to reach the conclusions now drifting through his mind, on his own.

 _Jonathan_ did not grieve; what was first planted by Ilona did. What was shored up by her evil ought to have sought a bloody vengeance, if they were in tune.

That piece, smelt and forged on a blacksmith’s anvil, and hammered upon by the Count still lived, of course. It still sought to grasp, and claw, and, someday, kill to its desires, and fill his belly on the leavings.

Jonathan wanted none of that, and the comprehension of that stirred him anew to fight for his life. He wanted to be a solicitor, happy with his law books. He desired to be wrapped up in his firm’s doings, and meeting with clients at all hours of the day. He wanted to lay his head down to rest, but not in a coffin.

He just had to keep his head up above this water, which was filled with a despair that was not his own. “I—I’m sorry. This isn’t really me, is it? It’s the sickness; it’s the pollution. I think...I think I can see beyond it. Thank you. It is as flimsy as onion skin,” he murmured aloud to them.

“I can tear through it, but I shall never forget their names. I will forever hold vigil, for by their actions they have sent me down...these pathless woods that should have been without a hazard. These pathless woods, which are no longer so pleasurable.” He knew he was mangling a quotation to suit his needs, but it was how he felt. He turned, and, able to do little more than this, buried his face in Mina’s hair. He breathed in what was real, even as she soothed him.

Quincey pondered his speech; his manner; he heard the sorrow being lifted up, even as it was oppressing the man. He watched their faces carefully. Jonathan obviously knew the anger was both his, and not. The cowboy shrugged. What was life, without a few risks? He needed to take a big one. He stepped into the circle in a show of trust, and untied the man’s ankles; his wrists. He dropped the rope beside him. Jonathan was evidently amazed as he rubbed his wrists.

Then, after a long look, Quincey used his boot to scrub away the protective barrier. If Jonathan changed, he would accept his mistake. If the Count managed to find his way here by some mystical mumbo jumbo, they would just have to deal with it.

He helped them both up, though there was a renewed shore of strength in their hands as he took them. He moved to his supplies, and returned with the rifle that Mina would soon enough have need of using. It was the one she had picked; the one she had tested, behind a copse of trees two early mornings.

“Thank you,” Mina smiled with a tinge of worry behind her words. She glanced from him to Jonathan, as he rose. “Think on your words, and nothing more,” she begged him. “Do your part, Jonathan. Help them help us.”

Jonathan grimaced as the sheath was passed to him; while he heard Mina’s words, it was still blunted in certain ways for him by a strange flicker in his mind. He shook his head. He could feel the holiness of the weapon before him. Just as he had supposed previously, the water had not worn off in time. He wouldn’t dare draw it free until he had no other choice, lest he burn himself. “You...trust me with this?”

“If you can feel real grief, there’s something left that’s still human. And if you can see all the junk that’s been poured in with new eyes, it’s progress, too,” Quincey revealed. "If you cut off your own hand, I'll get the fire to cauterise it for ya." He casually held a pair of binoculars to his eyes to pretend he didn't see that twitch of humour on Jonathan's lips, and finally took in the surrounding area.

"An end's in sight, or so I’m guessin’! Van Helsing’s not all that far off, if you look through this. He’s just to the left of that boulder.” He moved to pass Mina the tool.

“We can see him, and the rest,” Mina assured him with a small smile. Her fangs peeked through; Jonathan nodded his confirmation of the fact. “We no longer require such mortal accoutrements, though we are not so impaired as to bite you. We’re not… _completely_ apart from ourselves and our morals, Mr. Morris.” She spoke for herself; she hoped she spoke for Jonathan, too.

Quincey didn’t take much comfort in that, though the extra perks were rather welcome. He considered just shoving the binoculars back into his satchel. “Fine, then I can retire this old thing. Point the way.”

Jonathan saw Mina’s expression as she turned towards him. He hadn’t answered her earlier. “Let the light of Heaven be safe for us again with our deeds? Yes,” he said as he gently brushed her hair from the mark on her brow, and turned. He could see them all converging now, just as they implied. Seward came from the north; Arthur from the south.

Van Helsing was just beyond them, packing up his tools of his trade; pulling other things out of his satchel, and watching everything from the cliff. He would likely miss the majority of the battle.

“Right, then,” Quincey agreed as he looked again with a sigh. “I thought it best to get a head start and get to fightin', since Art and Jack are just as you say—they can be seen!” He put down the binoculars, and packed them. “And the Count is not too far off. His cart is being pulled along, with a bunch of those Szgany you mentioned hangin’ on and doing their business good with a whip. Wolves are out there somewhere, I would bet," he relayed. His face grew serious, and he studied the couple. "Do you feel him calling out to you?”

“Yes,” Mina answered in unison with Jonathan. Of course they would, given the blood that ran through them all. They could always feel something of him once they reached his homeland. It was just as Jonathan had implied when he prodded the vampire’s mind to see if he knew of the women dying; being so close, there was a frenzy of mental activity. “He isn’t actively directing our actions,” Mina granted.

“I’m gamblin’ somethin’ fierce here,” Quincey explained. “Don’t let me down? Aim good and clear, yeah, Mina?” Mina quickly nodded confirmation to that; she would do her best, he knew that. He wasn't sure about putting a lady in battle, but it had to be done. He'd seen his sisters in a scrap, and knew they weren't to be trifled with.

“I’ll try not to give in to my worse self, Mr. Morris,” Jonathan allowed. He always fell back on formalities when he was tired, and fretting, and beside himself in multiple ways. “What they’ve crafted and impressed into me may not care so much.” 

“And I don’t deny those feelings, not one whit! There are powerful things floatin' in that head of yours. Just do what you came here to do, or what you need to do most,” Quincey pointed out as he affixed the weapon to Jonathan’s belt. He heard horses even closer, and moved for a look. Mina was to his left; Jonathan to his right. He patted Jonathan’s shoulder. “Go ahead, and we’ll take up the rear.”

Quincey watched him as he took off. He tilted his head, and momentarily wondered if the man had really inherited some of that monster speed without dying first. He whirled back to look at Mina when he heard her fire a shot.

He looked at her, wondering about her intentions towards him for an uncomfortable duration of time, until she pointed; then, he saw her aim had been true. She had just shot one of the Szgany; one of the Count’s people. The man fell limply to the ground, not too far behind him. Had he been allowed to continue, he would have shot Quincey’s head clean off, and then taken down Jonathan.

His face brightened, and he grinned brilliantly at Mina. “Good woman, you have my thanks forever!” He’d known all along it was right to teach her deflections like that. And she still had more than enough bullets that needed to be holy!

Mina fairly blushed at the praise, despite both her pallor, and the chill. “Let us hope all of your efforts pay off as handsomely,” she sighed. She feared for her husband, and knew this land was full of threats; she wanted to pray, but given the state of things, feared it would be turned around upon her. She dared not take her eyes off of Jonathan at first, as they began to move. Quincey aided her in keeping her footing on some of the treacherously steep slopes.

Jonathan had leapt down a rocky crevice in the hill, moving with great haste. He had felt as though he was making progress with too little effort. Was he running faster than he believed he should and could? Was it merely adrenaline? He was startled as a bullet sang by his ear; there was an extra heat to its passing that repelled him. He whirled to see where the threat was, and saw exactly what Quincey had. That man could have murdered him.

Mina had seen the danger; Mina was his protector, imparting her strength from afar with her weapon. He held up his hand to block out the sun's strong rays, and saw her; he inclined his head, eyes wide. He knew she received the message, when she nodded back. The scent of the blood reached him; at first, he didn't look upon it, though he acknowledged that it fairly blossomed upon the fellow's white shirt. He knew even from her position that Mina, too, must struggle with the ebb and flow of such desires.

He dared to look down at the body, then, and got a good view of the face; there was recognition within him. Evidently, Mina had only gravely wounded him, too; he could hear the heart beating on. What was intended to be nothing but a passing glance became a steely fascination. But no, he mused as he peered down at the ruddy countenance.

This wasn’t a stranger, not entirely. He knew this man; he was no faceless servant, unknown to him. This was the man who had returned his letter to the Count, despite his pleas. He was no compatriot of the happier emotions, but someone that held a firm loyalty to his _boyar_.

Quincey caught up with him, and took in his fascination. The cowboy had his knapsack over one shoulder, but was parting from it here. It would only hamper his ability to fight. A pistol lay beside the man’s hand as it twitched once, and Quincey scooped it up. "He’s not dead, though she got him good. Yearnin' for the bad stuff?" 

The man shook his head before he could answer. “Doesn’t matter. Get going, and help ‘em with that knife!” Even from up here, he could see that Arthur was on the ropes. He was better with boats and dogs, than he was in a scrap. He needed an extra hand.

Jonathan watched the man, feeling as though he were being drawn towards a sumptuous meal. He smelt as though his blood would deliver so much strength to him, if only he succumbed. It must certainly be exquisite to consume such; he had seen the desire on the Count's face. At last, he could truly relate to the man. "Unless he revives soon, he'll be useless in a scant few hours. Were I so inclined," Jonathan nervously and uncomfortably replied. He could see as the Count did just then; he knew how much blood was left inside that vulnerable body.

An excitement stirred, before it was forced back. It was a near thing, that he did not latch his mouth upon the man’s carotid artery and drain him dry while he himself yet lived. It would mean the Count had won. It would leave him damned, and lost. The poor man breathed so slowly now; he didn’t want to loom over him like a vulture, and witness his pained gasps.

Jonathan shook his head, and stepped back with a valiant effort. There was nothing to be done for this fellow. “No, not at present. He could be soon...so soon. His blood will cool, with the rest of his body when he takes his last breath because of us.” He shook himself. “I saw him upon the grounds of the castle,” he confirmed with an air of finality.

His eyes proclaimed the extent of his yearnings; what he was becoming wanted just one drop, and then a score more. He was glad that Quincey did not raise the pistol to him. It merited no further discussion if he could pull himself back from the precipice, and he understood Quincey’s urging.

Jonathan sighed as Quincey lay a steadying hand upon his shoulder; it was also a welcome reminder that he had his life, and Mina's, to extract from a certain Count’s jaws before he could help anyone else. They were so close to the end, bitter or no. If they could not claw their way back into the light, then he and Mina, perhaps, could flee from the Count’s substantial shadow and survive in another capacity. They should retain their vows of man and wife, even in the unholiest of circumstances.

With that, Jonathan was on the move again, uneasy in his leanings. They would see which half of his nature chose to rise. They would see if he wanted the dark more than the light. Jonathan moved quickly away, face too closed to really read.


	9. Chapter 9

Jonathan found conflict as all forces converged, heightened cruelly even before he was close enough to do anything to overturn the cart and end their foe. The cart had, mercifully, halted its steady progression towards the castle when the Szgany driving it saw there were men who opposed them. There came the shout of a foreign language, followed soon by the clanging of blades; that much was a constant. Then there came a shout of a familiar voice.

He turned to see which of his friends required a helping hand more, even if he was a novice in this realm of combat. Seward seemed to have the situation well in hand; it was Arthur who was on the ropes, and struggling. As Jonathan reached them, he unsheathed the kukri. He swung, and found himself awkwardly slashing his opponent across the side. He didn’t want to kill him; he just wanted to free Arthur enough to carry on.  
  
Arthur nodded his thanks for helping him gain the upper hand, even as Seward had his opponent on the ropes. Jonathan gave a mild salute, and peered into the sky. There wasn’t much time left.

He stumbled through the snow, closer still, with a quiet awe overtaking him. As the fighting faded from his mind, he fell beside the coffin. He could smell blood from men still living, and it sought to overwhelm him. His senses were raging, but he had another purpose. He pressed his hands against the wood, with reverence. Then, Jonathan shook his head violently as serpentine words slithered through his mind. _**‘You will not harm me, Jonathan. You will allow me this victory.’**_ He must lift the lid; he must!

He whirled, and regained his footing with unnatural speed as he heard a shout too close to him. He felt a growl building deep inside his chest; he thought he heard himself hissing. Something about his face surely intimidated this one Szgany helper, for he threw down a puny dagger and fled. Where he could go without a weapon, in wolf filled terrain, and with no help for a great distance, Jonathan was uncertain. They were even farther from villages; perhaps he would walk until his shoes were no longer fit, and his feet were ripped and bloody.

Jonathan smiled, and paid him no mind once he was out of view beyond the trees. He knew that Mina and Quincey were close behind; he knew he was supposed to end the horror, but he just couldn’t help himself. There was too much need; it was so much that it could scarcely be contained from the thing that was so far removed from what he knew he should be. He thought he had it under wraps; he thought he could overcome any brush against his mind, but he was mistaken.

While Jonathan did not expressly _want_ to divulge all, it was easily proclaimed as he felt a pull at his senses; an exceptional mind brushed and throbbed in tandem against his own. Jonathan closed his eyes, and felt its full force. There was nothing but a sea of red emanating from it. He was appalled at how he was coming to enjoy it; he was beguiled by the extent of his growing devotion.

While he could hear his name being called out with great emotion behind him, he found he could not move. Oh, yes; there was Mina fast approaching, his groggy mind noted. The others were not too far away, though knew not the form of this new danger that was stirring in his heart. The Count was awake, for the hour was at hand. He was mighty as dusk came about, and praised his desire to be with him. He was seeping out of the confines as mist, so that he need not force it open with a crowbar that he had yet to find through happenstance.

Jonathan needed the Count desperately. It was almost as though he wanted to be flung into the abyss, and he knew that was wrong. He knew that would lead to his ruination. He tried to suppress the heady emotion that coursed through his veins; he knew before he tried it was impossible, stirred as it was by the Count’s control. He felt himself disappearing into a solitary trance, one piece at a time, as a snakelike hiss echoed in his mind.

The sky turned the vibrant colours of orange and gold coupled with hues of pink, as though nature had set itself ablaze for the Count’s triumph. Sunset had come for their merry band. The majesty of it in this instant could have been best termed romantic, if Jonathan was of a mind to care for anything but that time which soon must follow. This night would mark the Count’s victory. Jonathan was too late to stop him now; he couldn’t even control the actions his body was forced to take. Pleasure began to fill him as he beheld what was before him.

The lid need not be opened for the vampire to meet him. There need not be the dramatic action of a lid thrown back and away with a great force, no. Such would not be desirable, when he was triumphant. Jonathan could see these things and more, funnelled into the depths of his mind. A firm control netted his mind; his thoughts slowed, and altered ever further. The kukri hung limply at his side, forgotten.

Jonathan swayed, entranced, and sensed through their bond when the vampire dispersed into so many atoms. The Count was rising, as mist began to billow from the coffin like thick smoke.

As Count Dracula reformed before his very eyes, Jonathan slowly stepped into his arms. He felt as though he must greet him properly. He sheathed the blade; he kissed the hand that reached itself towards his throat. A dark laughter echoed through his mind.

Jonathan Harker was soon to become his fledgling creature. The changing man felt compelled to show the Count his utmost regard, as an unabashed and almost childish delight began to rise within him.


	10. Chapter 10

Mina felt the same pull as Jonathan did, and struggled against it. She was only able to act, for the full force of the Count’s gaze, and his attentions were not on her, but upon her husband. She knew what must surely happen if they were, having been under that duress before. If they failed, and if the others fell, she and Jonathan would be just like him. Perhaps they would still love one another, but they would be of his make.

A piece of her wanted it. It hurt to confess that even to her own mind, but she could see its appeal, to embrace the shadows. The greater portion of her, though, only desired for her husband to free from such horror; to join her in the light; she wanted them to be as they had been, what felt like ages ago. Young, and in love, and planning for a future which was ripe with splendour.

She raised the rifle, and did her best to aim. She steadied herself, for Quincey had said how easy it was for heightened emotion to ruin a shot; however, he had also mentioned it could be a boon if you were mad enough. Only Jonathan’s presence in the Count’s arms stayed her hand. She mustn’t touch him. She mustn’t harm him, however close he was to casting away everything.

Jonathan stepped backwards a pace. He appeared to be moving with a grace not entirely his own, into a position of kneeling, the kukri blade sheathed and in his belt again. Her heart clenched. No, it was a pose of submission towards the one who would be his death. Jonathan opened his arms, as though to welcome it; from what she could see from this angle, his smile was beatific; his eyes, vacant; enthralled.

They had spoken of this, and she knew his heart; he didn’t truly want him. It was only what Jonathan was becoming that revelled in such a display. It was only the Count’s power that induced it.

Mina’s finger quivered; she bit down the worry, and the anger and the terror that wanted to claim her. She shoved back that malignant presence within her heart. She heard the dull thump of a body falling to the ground behind her; then, she felt Quincey’s steadfast hand on her shoulder briefly; saw him draw back from her side, knowing she needed the space.

She might have said a prayer right now, but she feared in her present state that it would only do her harm; she had feared such before. She did so again. Perhaps, it would even make a shudder of revulsion shiver through her that could ruin her intent. She put all her hopes on Jonathan; she placed all her repulsion straight for the Count.

Mina fired; the crack of the shot sounded dreadfully loud, even with the chaos of an ongoing battle surrounding her on all sides. It sounded even louder than when she had saved Quincey and Jonathan with one blow.

The blessed bullet struck not the vampire’s heart, but his shoulder. No, that vital once-living organ had not been her target, no matter her longing; not yet. If one was bound by such a presence, then the pain of one would flow fast and become that of two. She wanted Jonathan to see where he was. She wanted to break him loose and return to him his mind once more, before more could be accomplished.

There was the sound of hissing flesh, the odour of which reached her vantage point. There was heard a pained grunt; a demonic snarl. As Jonathan gasped and held himself, she saw that aspect of her goal was successful. From the way his eyes darted around, she knew he was trying to ascertain what the truth of his reality was.

Jonathan leapt to his feet, as a pain not his own rippled through him. It felt as though his insides filled with lava for a fleeting moment; it was not the same as the Eucharist or crucifix burning a brand against his flesh. It was unlike feeling the three ladies dying. He had nothing to compare it to in his brief span of days. He gave a small shiver as the haze that had infiltrated his senses parted.

The foreign persona that had covered his soul, now retreated and crept back into the corners, writhing; waiting; howling for blood, crying out for his body to become its vessel upon the hour in which he must surely fall, to be resurrected anew.

The shadows lessened; the desire decreased. He gazed upon the Count, and knew what he had almost allowed to happen. He felt as though he must offer consolation for such a flesh wound as had been bestowed upon the monster. It almost made him chuckle for the nonsense of it, but he held fast to sanity.

The Count’s hands clenched, pained, though the beast’s head was held high. There was little emotion upon his face, though Jonathan felt something within him tremble. The vampire stared into the correct angle, even from a distance knowing Mina’s location before she stepped out of her place of concealment behind a boulder. He was bound to her mind; he ought to know. He met her eyes with a cruel set to his mouth. He inclined his head, as though she had just proved her mettle. She had earned his regard.

“You will find that you cannot do such so easily again, Mrs. Harker,” he assured her as he stroked a finger across the wound. “Although, I see that my blood has provided you with ample vision for such an act. Embrace that. Soon enough, you will both be my jackals. Come,” he urged as Mina began her slow approach. A knowing smile, monstrous and vile touched his lips. He knew their innermost secrets; their fears.

He knew what they were each pining for, and would stoke their temptation, so that it might consume them. “You both desire another taste. It is written upon your souls, and engraved upon your hearts. Your blood will forever be bound to me. I shall make you as you should be.” And then, they would slay these people; taste them; torment them; use them. Whichever act he instructed them to do, they would commit upon their friends.

Jonathan shook his head, awestruck at what he had sought. He focused on the pain that was not his own. He held fast to the sorrow that had filled their lives ever since the day he had entered the castle. He thought of his love for Mina, and how she had stayed at his side despite his madness; his possession; his entreaties that she must do otherwise at his strangest hours.

The Count’s red eyes loomed before his vision as Jonathan slowly stepped into his arms. He took a breath; he inhaled the rank, oppressive stench of the grave that had always so bothered him. Another emotion, pushed aside in his terror, and mired down by the ever increasing change within him began to make itself known. The vampire believed he had won.

A righteous anger flooded through the solicitor. It was buoyed by protectiveness and fear for Mina. It was forged and honed by a love for everyone that had been destroyed by this monster’s touch since he had reached the shores of England.

“We will _never_ be your _jackals_ ,” Jonathan snarled. In one smooth motion he withdrew the kukri and plunged it deep into the Count’s chest. The blade was long; he supposed it must have pierced through the fiend’s back, preventing him from doling out further abuses without great effort. He saw the flare of disquiet; torment; unmitigated, and insurmountable rage fill the Count’s face; he felt the twin of it within his own chest.

He was not the Count’s best beloved one. He was not his minion, mindless and dancing to his tune. He was a man who had seen the suffering of the night, and longed to throw off the yoke of that horror. He would not be used for the further degradation of his wife; he would not be used to lure in another. He would not allow his friends to be murdered or transformed or otherwise harmed!

Jonathan tried not to react with desire when he saw that blood seeped forth around the exemplary wound. His hand grew to be slick with it. He looked away; he thrust again. Jonathan reared back, his arm going up protectively as the vampire screeched from the brush with such accursed holiness as drenched the blade. Even as the creature did this, the man darted out of range.

Some expanding portion within him still quaked and desired to grovel before the monster. He wanted to kneel once more, and wrest the weapon loose, before he begged for absolution. The conflicting impulses made him pause.

The Count was now half transformed into a grotesque mockery of a man-shaped bat. Jonathan could only stare. He didn’t know he had stepped inexorably closer until Jack and Arthur stepped forward and quickly pulled him from harm. He realised in horror that he was falling into another trance, and moved with them without a sound. Seward wiped the blood from his quivering hand. Jonathan met Quincey’s eyes as he hurried by and saw both respect and intent.

He would deal the killing blow for them. He was the closest, without a hindrance; without tainted blood within his body to magnetically draw him towards the darker path. “Hold me tightly, whatever I might do,” Jonathan murmured to Arthur. He saw that Mina had gently placed down her weapon yet kept it easily within reach, and was being held by Van Helsing. The same thought; the same purpose; he was proud of her. He need not warn the others of a potential for their betrayal.

It was understood among them. Should Jonathan lose himself again, or become possessed, they would keep him at bay. They would not let him become a monster. Their eyes widened at the screeches; Jonathan grunted, shielding his eyes as Arthur made to hold a cross up to protect them, and ward off the Count from his presence. Seward gave him a look of concern, but Jonathan shook his head in dismissal. “’Tis but a reflection, this, and nothing more,” he assured him as he pushed beyond the hurt.

Mina nodded to Quincey, seeing in him a grand purpose to put things right. She felt Van Helsing's gentle touch as he wrapped his arms about her waist, and held her arm. She could not break free without great effort, and was the better for it. There was no need to implore Quincey to do anything, yet still she spoke. “Mr. Morris, would you please do the honours?”

That mighty kukri blade may not have entirely pierced the heart; from the impressions she was getting from that monstrosity, it had merely shaved off a portion; it had scalded it badly, but it hadn’t done the deed and pierced it fully. It hurt as it should. He must be shown mercy; he must be put down, before he harmed another. She found his sight pitiable; pitiful; horrid. She found the odour of the blood an enticement that left her reeling; she pressed her face against Van Helsing’s shoulder.

“With _pleasure_ , Mrs. Harker,” Quincey sang out. He evaded the clawed wing; the human arm, with nails so sharp, for it sought to slit his throat with two different moves. He swung his trusty Bowie when he had an opening. Quincey’s blade sheared through the undead flesh; it cleaved the Count’s head from his shoulders with a single blow.

The process of decomposition moved swiftly, then, to catch up with that which had been held off for untold centuries. As Count Dracula’s body collapsed into so much dust and ash, all those bitten, all those untold scores of lives wasted, were now avenged.

At the instant of final dissolution, before the pale face crumbled away, a look of peace was beheld by Jonathan. It almost took his breath away. It could have been his imagination, for it was only for the briefest span of time.

There might have been a thankfulness for this gift of death. The life cruelly lived, the body count that none could truly understand, was finally at its end. Even if it were a false comfort, he should like to keep the idea of it protected within his heart until his dying day.

With their ruler slain, the small remainder of Szgany rode away for their very lives. Two leapt back onto the cart, and shoved the now empty box to the ground prior to fleeing the scene. Presumably, the very presence of the Count’s previous protection could only harbour bad luck.

All things considered, their party was fortunate to have had such a favourable outcome; they had no casualties among their number to mar the encroaching night’s victory. Jonathan noticed that within the remains lay the kukri he had been unable to pull free. He moved to step forward, and then stilled; he didn’t have the nerve to step upon those remains. He needn’t have been concerned, though, for Quincey bent low and reclaimed it for him.

Quincey shook it free of Dracula's vestiges, and handed it handle first to Jonathan. It was quickly sheathed; the solicitor unbuckled the weapon from his belt, and left it in the snow. The Count’s blood stained its blade, and was rapidly drying; he wouldn’t have it so close to himself. Previously, it was repellent from the holiness; now, it was repugnant for that trace of his tormentor.

Van Helsing knelt down and studied the remains, before he pulled out his flask of holy water. Quietly, he poured it upon the entirety of the remains. The remnants still reacted and began to bubble; there was hissing and burning. When it subsided not a trace was left behind.

Quincey’s mouth fell open, then, for another beautiful sight lay before him. He raised a hand and pointed. “See! The snow is not more stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away!" Quincey bolted forward and lifted the woman up as Mina began to shed tears of joy, spinning her around as she then laughed joyously at the man’s demonstrative nature. “There’s a sound we need to hear more!”

Jonathan felt the pain pass away from his hand, as well as his forearm. Relief bubbled up, impossible to stop. There was pink skin where previously wretched impressions were seared. It was a miracle that was impossible to deny. Jonathan politely approached them with a fond smile. As he watched his friend with his wife, he found the setting had inspired him, as unique as it was. A mood was upon him, for the desire for blood; for such activities as the Count deemed fitting had evaporated much as the ashes had.

Spontaneously, Jonathan called out with great jubilation tempering the formulation of his words. “Unhand my wife, if you should be so kind, Mr. Morris. There is a question I would like to ask her, if...if she is willing.” This land had taken so much from them. Let them have this moment.

Quincey put her down gently. He spotted something in Jonathan’s eyes that made him want to give them privacy. He had seen that look before. He expected some kind of grandiose declaration. As Mina checked over her husband and gloried in the appreciation that they were both healed, Quincey gave Jonathan a firm pat. “You did a fantastic job there,” he whispered in his ear. He rushed to embrace Jack and Art, elated that everyone had survived the combat.

Jonathan sniffed the air before he could speak further, finally pulled from the spectacle of the scene, and the relief that the Count was no more. Was that smoke he smelt? Was some new horror soon to be visited upon them? It was Mina who found the source first, having been looking in the correct direction. "Oh, Jonathan, look!" She urged him, as she pulled at his sleeve. “There, in the distance!”

He turned to where she pointed. He turned and was almost overcome by the beauty of the scene. In the distance upon the cliff, flames could be seen rising from the castle's windows. Those broken and crumbling battlements glowed orange, from what occurred within its walls. It was open to the air, so it was easily fed; it was likely spreading quickly, though the stone itself could not burn.

Jonathan laughed openly as he wrapped an arm around Mina's waist. His only regret was that he would be unable to visit the room in which he had been a prisoner, and see it with eyes that no longer feared the Count’s presence within, or the ladies three. She covered his hand with hers, as they watched. She knew what a nightmare it had been, for she had read his words; she had felt the repercussions, for they had sought to consume her.

“You crazy Dutchman, you really did it! You listened to Jonathan's suggestion!" Quincey crowed. He had half wanted to wander those halls, and riffle through the monster’s belongings. He wanted to see the pile of coins that Jonathan had dug through. He wanted to see where the monsters slept, though he had already been to Carfax. He knew the stench of death would reek far worse there.

Van Helsing only smiled at the dumbfounded joy that surrounded him at first, before he inclined his head in confirmation. He was glad that, while it had taken a bit of time for the interior to catch enough, it had indeed become a conflagration. “I was not certain it would take hold. I wanted a way so fantastical to sweep away their remains, and dear friend Jonathan’s odd notice took root.”

With his very being alight with joy and wonder at the magnificence of such a display, Jonathan returned to his previous purpose. Once he had the proper words envisioned, he knew what he must do. He stepped back and kissed Mina’s hand gently, staring into her eyes with unbridled love and hope.  
  
It was strange to broach a topic such as this. What better surroundings could he hope to have? “We have yet to have our first dance as man and wife, my Wilhelmina.” He stroked her cheek, seeing as understanding filled her eyes. He was too weak for such strenuous activity when she found him in the convent. A spell was woven upon his psyche, without his knowledge; then, both were corrupted, and tragedy clung to them like a second skin.

Otherwise, he might have been more receptive to such a plan in the days thereafter. “Might we, beneath the moonlight and, now, the accompanying firelight? Might we, as the snow falls upon us all?”  
  
“Before a smouldering pile of ash, before a burning monstrous castle, in the moonlight, and before our friends. I would be honoured if you would share a dance with me. For tonight, in the place where we were almost stolen from each other, just as assuredly as he stole particular months.” They should have been man and wife for longer, but for his incarceration within those walls.  
  
He didn’t look away from her, hoping he had not overstepped himself; hoping he had not misread her glee, her joy, her relishing of life anew in any manner. Her eyes glittered, face alight with wonder. He could not do such without his best friend and love at his side. “Of course, my Jonathan. It would be a delight.” She put a hand on his shoulder; one in his palm. She smiled as she saw the unmarred flesh.

The fire flickered behind them, casting strange shadows that did not frighten them a whit as they began to move slowly, his arm now around her waist; her head on his chest. Jonathan laughed softly at the strangeness of it all.

The wind blew gently through Mina’s hair; the snow was falling lightly around them, beneath the moonlight. And yet, as it swirled around them as though dancing with them, there was nothing more to fear. These were not the devils of the pit, come for another taste. There was nothing more to flee. There was nothing but their love. The shadows cast were no longer monstrous, even from that castle, in this once so lonesome land.

Jonathan gently and slowly spun her around, placing a gentle hand on her cheek once they were facing each other again. Jonathan whispered into her ear, softly, as he wrapped an arm tighter around her waist. “We’re free, Mina.” He thought she was so beautiful right now; fierce; an excellent woman to be at his side in the days that stretched ahead, who would be trusted with his life forever. He was amazed that she had shaken him from that dark enchantment with a _bullet_.  
  
She smiled, her grip on his arm that little bit tighter. “We _are_. We're safe again,” she enthused. There were no words for all they felt. Gently, he drew her in and kissed her. Their energy from that victory could last them a little while longer. He doubted either of them could sleep after that melee. They were savouring their joy, their foreheads remaining gently pressed against one another.

They heard wild applause from Quincey, then, and softer applause joining in from the rest. The two pulled away with reluctance, having almost forgotten the others for that one glorious moment. Jonathan smiled, almost bashful at being seen in that embrace. Mina whispered in his ear, then. “What is decorum when we have won our eternal souls from the jaws of a demon?"

“Pray continue, and do not halt this. Young love is wondrous,” Van Helsing declared with amusement. He could not have hoped for a better outcome.

Jonathan and Mina continued to hold each other, but turned as they heard a rumbling noise. Jonathan soon pointed to the exact spot it emanated from for Mina, as a portion of the already broken battlements crumbled even more, from whatever occurred within. While he doubted it would all go down the cliff, it was still immensely satisfying. “There goes part of the wall where I escaped. Or perhaps that was his room,” he murmured as he rocked her gently.  
  
A rapt silence descended upon the group that had conquered something truly horrific, and survived. As the flames rose, crackling, and stretched toward the heavens, Jonathan and Mina gave it their undivided attention.

They held each other upon this once so lonely shore, with its swirling cauldron of superstitions. Their souls could fly again, for the shackles had been broken. They were freed. Perhaps not so much as to escape bad dreams from a grim reminder one otherwise halcyon day, but they were free enough to recall a time not so dire as this. They were free enough to relish the fact they would not be forced to drink the blood of the living, or make the choice to flee and cause the deaths of others in their wake.

In the years ahead, perhaps the night would not be quite so cursed for them. With this victory, a blessing was bestowed upon their tattered souls.

The landscape would be lit by the crackling flames throughout the night, and well into the morning. It would only finally die away for lack of fuel. The place was gutted.

Soon, the castle would become just a relic of the past, and nothing more.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks must go out to Sean, for the massive undertaking of the beta reading, as well as the Britpicking of this story.
> 
> -The three brides of Dracula were dubbed Ilona, Snežana, and Livana. Ilona means Queen of the Fairies, so she’s the fair haired bride, and basically in charge of tormenting Jonathan against Dracula’s express wishes. Snežana means snow, while Livana means the moon. It seemed fitting as the moon and snow appeared to become a theme with them all.
> 
> -In the novel, Sister Agatha only wrote to Mina about Jonathan, and once assured her that none of his ravings involved anything that he himself had personally done wrong. Here, she's become a believer that something is out to get Jonathan. (And there is no connection to the Van Helsing family, for those that saw Moffat's miniseries)
> 
> -Sister Dunya was an accidental reference to Lord of the Vampires, by Jeanne Kalogridis; fellow nun Sister Zaleska was a reference to Countess Marya Zaleska Dracula’s Daughter (1936)
> 
> -Simmons is the attendant that found Renfield in the novel, after Renfield's altercation with Dracula left him at the brink of death. Jenkins was imported from Dracula (TV 1968).
> 
> -Samuel F. Billington & Son were the solicitors that shipped the fifty boxes of earth from Whitby, via the Great Northern Railway, to a delivery company in London, prior to delivery at Carfax Abbey and elsewhere.
> 
> -The horses dubbed Sandor and Magda were an inadvertent reference to Dark Shadows (1966).
> 
> -The Latin prayer ("Adjuro te in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti") means, “I charge thee in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” 
> 
> -Mina shooting at least one of the Szgany was inspired by a moment in Count Dracula (1977).
> 
> -The half bat-like creature that Dracula turns into before Quincey finishes him off was inspired by the form used in Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992).
> 
> -Van Helsing burning the castle down, and the phrasing of Jonathan's suggestion about doing such a thing at all was inspired by two things. The first, was from Stoker's original notes, when he first planned to have the castle destroyed via a volcano after the Count was slain (before the idea was nixed). 
> 
> The second, more obvious inspiration came from a song in Dracula The Musical. The line was from Before The Summer Ends, and this was the passage: “To dim the sun before the summer ends. To burn the castle down, Before the princess is awake. To kill our love when it's still so alive. I would not do it. My heart would break.” 
> 
> So that's how Van Helsing became an arsonist.
> 
> -If you can catch any other references to various Dracula works, then kudos to you!


End file.
